


Counterpoint & Consequent

by WhittyOne



Series: Serenade & Sonata [1]
Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Blood Play, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, NSFW, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 88,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhittyOne/pseuds/WhittyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chance encounter at the end of <em>Only Lovers Left Alive</em> prolonged Adam’s life, but did it actually save it?  How much longer would the suicidally romantic scoundrel be willing to keep walking the earth… and would he be willing to do it at all without Eve?  This is an original work of fanfiction inspired by the 2013 Jim Jarmusch film; no copyright infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You sure you don’t want to come in with us, bro? There’s a shit-ton of haul in there…”

The dark, lean figure closed his eyes in silent irritation, exhaling loudly through his nose before turning to the pair of gangly teens shifting their weight from foot to foot on the pavement behind him. “Not to mention,” the taller of the duo ran his tattered sleeve across his reddened nose, “the rave’s always hella sweet, man.” His squat and rat-faced companion snorted a laugh from his barreled chest, only to swallow down his own invitation under the weight of the stranger’s frozen blue glare.

“Gentleman,” he scowled. “And I use the term very loosely…” He jutted his chin towards the small U-Haul trailer hitched to the rear of the aged Jaguar. “I have no time for and even less interest in crawling through the nightmare ruin your kind prefers to that which matters.” He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, taking a sip of pleasure in the way the two delinquents cowered before him. “Now, unless you’d like Mr. Franklin to see his way out of your pockets and back into my own…”

“Chill, bro, chill,” the twosome held their hands up in mock surrender. “We got this, we got this. You hang tight, okay?” They hurried away in their swaying, shuffling gait, leaving their erstwhile employer to lean in exasperated impatience against the bumper of the vintage vehicle parked at the edge of the dusty, ruined lot.

“The safe,” he barked at their departing backs. “Do not forget the safe.”

The boys did not answer him, but swaggered along a little faster, thumping up the front steps of the house that used to be his. Neon blue light spilled onto the porch as the door swung ajar and then they were gone, swallowed by the throbbing bass of the electro-tech music that burst through the opening. It floated on the night air, chattering his teeth, making his stomach turn.

He tilted his head back to look at the black of the starless sky above. He realized, as he stroked his fingertips through the whiskers he’d let grow to dust over his lips and hide his chin, that he was getting used to seeing the expanse of the world without the swath of hair that had obscured his view for so long. The curls he’d despised centuries before had bounced back into place as soon as he’d put scissors to his locks; he didn’t mind being the man last seen with Ian, but one didn’t need his vast amount of experience to realize it could end up being decidedly inconvenient to look like him. A swell of raucous hooting laughter spilled into the street, and he closed his eyes with a weary sigh.

Two hours later, the window of the XJS rolled smoothly down into the housing of the door, allowing the midnight breeze of southern Detroit to drift across the face of the driver. His black gloved hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel as he breathed in the scent of steel dust and chrome, of PVC and petrol.

Just another memory to file away among the stacks of thousands, millions, of others. Like the incensed air and reedy music of Tangiers. Like the sawdust voice of Marlowe channeling Puck before his ill-fated toast. Like the silk and moonlight touch of her hand when he kissed her goodbye that last time. THE last time. If he’d known the thing that would save their lives would end up being the thing that ended their centuries-long romance, he almost certainly would have let the sun take him.

As it were, their initial salvation seemed to be exactly that. Turning the young man and woman not only created two allies whose survival also depended on finding a steady supply of clean blood, it provided two new companions for his hedonist bride and his own rejuvenated spirit. The conversations had been engaging, challenging, the knowledge and experience of the past colliding headlong with the question and potential of the future. The music had been lively, intense, and so had the sex. But the world moved on, as it always did. The euphoria faded, and the dinginess of reality became harder and harder for him to deny.

They might have made their way around it, as they always had before. But when Tarek’s attachment to Eve continued to deepen, leaving Nisrine feeling more and more isolated and alone, he’d been ill-equipped (and, if he was honest, quite unmotivated) to help. So they continued to move in uneasy orbit around one another, like children groping their way through some misguided game of hide and seek in a dark playroom. It worked, for a while. Until, of course, that Moroccan summer morning when the young woman simply rose from her place on the sofa and crossed the room to pull open the door and step out into the bright and sunny expanse of the open balcony.

Eve’s maternal nature had been little more than a pestering nuisance in the past, but watching her indict its failure after that had been painfully unbearable. Night after night he’d held her, feeling the waves of sadness and confusion surge beneath her cool, porcelain skin, feeling the gulf between them expand until it only made sense when she lifted her face and he finally saw it in the eternity of her eyes.

“I simply don’t understand,” she’d whispered.

“I know you don’t,” his somber reply.

Her brow furrowed, her lips drawn into a thin, tight line. “We should have stopped her.”

He shook his head. “Only she could have done that.”

The purr of a zipper around the curve of a suitcase. The hum-bump-thrum of wheels on pavement. The close of a car door, the small weight of a curiously constructed bullet pressed into his palm.

“I can’t take one more choice from you,” her words full of sad affection.

“You never did,” his edged in resigned resolution.

Sounds of goodbye, woven into the soundtrack of his long, very long life.

The Super 8 off of I-69 in Coldwater was quiet, nondescript. The rheumy-eyed agent barely even looked up from his Woolrich novel while tucking the worn bills into the cash register and pushing the thin plastic card-key across the counter. The room itself was familiar and foreign, the strong scents of Lysol and nylon and delivery pizza that drifted on the air only slightly masking the more muted salt and metal odors of sweat and semen, the broad front window with the weather-etched corners looking out at the Jaguar’s dark headlights. Standing over the stuffed belly of the open U-Haul, he sighed heavily to himself. Maple and catgut, ash and steel twine, wires and buttons and diaries and dials, he brushed his bare fingertips over their topography with weary regard before hauling the heavy iron safe and the hotwired digital mixer inside.

The reel-to-reels were all there, as were the sheets of lines and dots, clefs and codas. He settled into the dent in the mattress, propping a battered pillow behind his head before plugging his creation into the bedside outlet and flipping open the keyboard. Lack of speakers prevented the music from filling the room, but it didn’t matter; it filled his head, bringing him back to center almost as well as the brief tug from the small, silver flask hidden in the front pocket of his jeans. He thought of the two bottles left in the cooler, their ornate necks and bodies clever disguises for the forbidden vintage inside, still nestled in the singular bag he’d checked into the guts of the 747.

“Supply,” he muttered to himself. “Space… and supply.”

Fuck LA. Zombie central. A husk of humanity driven by appearance and advantage, more crowded with his past than he cared to admit. He was likewise disgusted by the idea of Manhattan, stuffed to the brim with the pompous and the pretentious, their culturally crafted artifices hiding a startling lack of soul and substance. New Orleans more often than not felt like home - music and memories, but the communities of his kind there were laden with expectation and entitlement. His sort of hunger for solitude would no doubt be regarded with scorn and suspicion. Nashville was an enticing cornucopia of sight and sound, but he was fairly sure his bloodthirst, no matter how tamed and tempered, and the born-again bourgeois of the Bible belt would not mesh well. So where…?

The sun was caressing his curtained window when he finally set his creating aside, curling on his side to stare morosely at the laminated brand card propped on the night table, proudly announcing the openings of locations in Burbank, Tulsa, Council Bluffs, and Austin.

Austin…

************

“Mr. Hernandez… come on. You know the drill by now.” The young nurse crossed her arms over her chest and tapped the toe of her Dansko clog on the mushroom-colored tile. “Wouldn’t you rather just get some sleep?”

The elderly ward scowled at her from beneath bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “How’m I supposed to sleep on an empty stomach?” He whinged. “I’m so hungry!”

Raking her fingers through the long layer of dark hair that tumbled across her forehead, she exhaled audibly through her nose. “You know what that means, right? We have to stick to check your glucose now, we’ll have to stick again to give insulin.” She cocked her head, as if trusting her patient would catch the hint. “Is half a ham and cheese and a pack of graham crackers really worth all that?” She smiled hopefully.

The old man slouched poutily into his pillow. “I’m so huuuuuuuuungry…”

Biting back a growl of frustration, she turned on her heel, heading briskly for the nutrition room. When she reemerged moments later, her hands full, she nearly collided with the other RN monitoring patients in the East wing of the medical-surgical floor. “Oh, God, Marina,” she gasped, fumbling the packets of crackers into her pocket next to the glucometer. “I’m so sorry.”

The tiny Latina dropped a brisk wink. “Never apologize when you’re gettin’ a little two a.m. action, Em. Makes these graveyard shifts move a little faster.” She eyeballed the haul the taller nurse was carrying with a knowing smirk. “Mando feeling peckish?”

“Oh yeah,” Emma rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“He’s gonna bitch about the peanut butter…”

The young woman twisted her lips into a grimace. “Who _wouldn’t_ bitch about sugar free peanut butter?”

Thirty minutes later, her aged patient fed, medicated, and back in bed, she sank into the worn leather rolling chair at the main nurse’s station and pulled a computer keyboard over in front of her. Her fingers clicked rapidly over the keys as she charted her assessment and interventions, then rechecked her status boards for order updates and daily progress summaries. I’s dotted and t’s crossed, she rocked back in her seat with a wide, silent yawn, stretching her arms over her head. Glancing down one end of the long and dimly lit corridor, then the other, and seeing nothing but sickly silver fluorescents reflected off the floor, she reached under the desk for the leather strap of her purse. Her cellular phone was tucked into a small side pocket; slipping it out, she scrolled to her music app and tapped the cue for shuffle. Adjusting the volume, she slid the device into her pocket and straightened the ID badge on the lanyard around her neck. “Hey Mare? I’m running down for a caffeine boost…”

The Catholic hospital at the corner of 15th street had been a respected and admired institution of Austin for more than a century, and a recent facilities upgrade had provided more than 50 new state of the art coffee dispensers for visitors and staff alike. But any employee to grace the halls as a member of the nightshift, from cardiologist to custodian, learned quickly to ride the elevator down and exit the lobby to the left, to the tiny food truck anchored by the stoplight at Red River. No whips or flavors or blends or espresso shots, just strong, hearty brew made to order by the hunched and well-humored gent that had set up shop outside the ER a decade before. He raised a friendly eyebrow and reached for the pot handle as the young woman approached, rubbing her hands together in the early morning chill. “Running late tonight, Em,” he chided good-naturedly. “Was starting to worry I’d lost you to that five hour bullshit you ladies seem to be flocking to these days.”

“What, are you kidding me, Otis?” Emma scoffed as she offered over a pair of folded bills from one hand while shaking two bland white sugar packets in the other. “They’d find me curled up on the floor of the POU if I ever tried to quit the high octane, you ought to know that by now.”

The burly barista chuckled from deep within his ginger beard as he poured, handing over the environmentally-friendly cup before taking the money and slipping it into the bank bag hidden beneath his apron. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as a swell of music rose from his customer’s scrubs. “Clapton?”

“Close,” Emma smiled. “Beck.” She watched the crystals swirl and melt as she twizzled the tiny straw through her coffee, then took a deep, appreciative sip. “Oh, O,” she sighed demonstratively. “What would we do without you?”

“Snooze our way to a lawsuit or ten, that’s for sure.”

Emma glanced over her shoulder at the approaching speaker. “Dr. G,” she grinned, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of the batcave before.”

“Eh, they let me out every once in a while,” the long, lanky man fumbled his wallet from his lab coat, quickly swapping a five dollar bill for a cup of his own. “Keep it, Otis,” he shook his head at the offered change before taking a drink of the straight black brew. “Can I walk you back up?” He gestured gallantly towards the emergency room doors and, after tucking an extra buck of her own into the jar labeled “Tahiti or bust”, Emma allowed him to escort her back inside.

“So,” she leaned against the wall of the elevator as it began its slow ascent. “Anything new in the world of plasma processing?”

Dr. Gabriel shrugged, taking another pull from his cup. “Pretty much the same old, same old.” He offered her a wry grin. “You’re donating Saturday, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” Emma reassured him. “I’m pumping and poking,” she cracked her knuckles soundly. “Manning the needles from 7 am to 9 am, tell all your friends.”

“Now that’s charitable commitment for you…”

“Well, I can do it sitting down and it’s all the free Nilla wafers I can eat… who am I to say no?”

A reedy chime filled the air and the doors slid open on the still dim and silent hallway. The pair walked side by side to the large desk Emma had left only moments before, and Marina’s dark eyes flashed impishly as she raised her head to greet them. “ _Doctor en Sangre_ …”

“ _Enfermera Lengua Afilada_ ,” Gabriel dropped a spirited wink, “ _usted está buscando bastante encantador esta noche…_ ”

“When am I gonna get a pet name?” Emma pouted playfully.

“ _Cuando su culo blanco flaco puede hablar Español, chica._ ” Marina quipped before sinking her pencil into the taut bun cinched at the back of her head and pushing her rolling chair to the stack of charts at the opposite corner.

Emma’s jaw dropped briskly in mock offense. “I speak enough, _puta…_ ”

“ _Lengua afilada,_ ” the physician chortled. “ _Et tu?_ ” He blushed just a tinge behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he scrutinized the young woman a fleeting moment. “ _Bastante Porcelana.”_

“Awww,” Emma cooed, flushing a bit herself. “China Doll?”

Dr. Gabriel clicked his tongue. “Close enough.” A muted buzzer sounded through the secured glass door directly across from the nurse’s station. “There’s my B positive,” he dropped a gallant bow before spinning on his heel. “ _Señoritas…”_

The two nurses watched as he crossed the hall in easy strides, his white lab coat breezing out behind him. “Marina,” Emma sighed under her breath, “I’m not really into older men, but, seriously? You really need to tell me why you never hit that.”

“Oh, Emmaline,” the other nurse chided, disgust in her voice; Emma grimaced herself at the sound of her given name. She was about to turn and offer an apology before her colleague leaned in to murmur in her ear. “Who says I never?”

Five hours later, Emma squinted into the light of the rising sun as she eased her car into the parking spot in front of her small, first floor apartment. She fumbled her key into the lock, yawning hugely as she pushed her way inside. Draping her bag on the hook in the entry, she kicked off her clogs and padded to the refrigerator in sock feet. She plucked a ripe red grape from the bunch on the second shelf, popping it into her mouth with relish, then drank deeply directly from the milk carton before filling a glass. Snagging the white cardboard box from beside the eggs, she hip-checked the door closed before placing it in the microwave. The smell of Lo Mein filled the air a moment later, and a throaty yowl rumbled from near her ankles. “Nemesis,” she cooed, bending to scratch behind the tattered ear of the fat, orange tabby weaving a figure eight between her legs. “I missed you, too.”

Leftover Chinese in hand and cat at her heels, she moved into her bedroom, stripping off her scrubs and tossing them into the hamper just inside the bathroom. Her lacy pink bra joined them a moment later, as did her socks, and she wriggled into her worn old ACL t-shirt with a sigh of relief. “Hi, buddy,” she crooned as she crawled into the unmade bed, twirling her fork in the soy-laden noodles as the feline leapt up to join her. Digging in the rumpled sheets, she found the remote to her television and clicked it on, settling into her pillow. Past the morning news magazines and syndicated sitcoms, she settled on a cable channel broadcasting a show about autopsy analysis. Placing the control on her bedside table, she reached up and pinched the clasp of the thick plastic clip that held the twist of her dark brown hair atop her head. It tumbled down past her shoulders, still damp and fragrant from the previous day’s shampoo. She scraped her fingers over her scalp, separating her locks and bringing the two thin sections of vibrant purple out of hiding.

The program was only half over when Emma groped for the remote once more, switching the set off without opening her eyes. Recognizing the cue, the cat ceased his grooming at the foot of her bed and, after a long, languid stretch, lumbered up to curl on the empty pillow on the unoccupied side of the bed. “You know, fatty,” Emma drawled through a yawn. “One day, that spot is going to belong to someone else. Someone big and blonde and buff…”

The cat yawned himself, narrowing his amber eyes and stretching his claws as if to emote...

_That’ll be the day…_


	2. Chapter 2

He didn’t look like the sort of man Adam normally sought out to conduct his business affairs. He was sprawled behind the wheel of his BMW X5, scrolling one bloated finger over the touch screen of a cellular phone when the Jaguar crunched to a stop on the poorly paved road. He barely looked up at the clunk of Adam’s door closing, opting to stay in the tropical balm of his heater until his client’s stare bore holes into his forehead through the tinted windshield. Only then did he kill the engine and swing his Ferragamo loafers out to the ground. He tucked his tie gracefully into his suit blazer before buttoning it, then pulled his camel hair trenchcoat closed against the late winter chill. “You’re Bill.”

Adam’s expression remained guardedly neutral. “You’re Bernard.”

The two men shook gloved hands stiffly. “I appreciate your discretion, Billy boy,” Bernard fumbled a cigarette case and lighter from his pocket and popped it open, slipping one into the corner of his mouth before offering the remaining few. Adam simply stared, and after a moment, the other man swallowed with a click, snapping the box closed and sparking the tobacco to glowing embers. “As well as your accommodating such an… unconventional appointment schedule.”

The midnight wind kicked up, carrying the scent of sickly sweat, High Karate, and expensive hair dye to Adam’s nose. He exhaled audibly, then gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “I keep odd hours.”

The rounder gentleman barked a husky laugh. “Your type usually does though, don’t they?” He scrutinized Adam’s unyielding stare. “Musician, right?” When it became clear no answer was forthcoming, he took a deep drag and blew a plume of grey smoke over his shoulder. “Well, sir, I asked for tight-lipped now, didn’t I?” Again, Adam elected not to speak; with an irritated sigh, the other man dug into a deep breast pocket. “Now, I’m not saying she’s going to win any beauty contests, but her foundation is solid.” He glanced around the lot to the right - mostly barren scrub - as he pulled a cluster of folded papers from his jacket. “They called it a floodplain after ’35, so no one worth his salt would build here.” He took another puff from his cigarette with a sneer. “I know she lost her front steps, but hell, there hasn’t been more than puddle here since.” He shot Adam a sidelong glance. “I guess that’s just a lucky turn of fortune for men like us, huh?”

Again, his only reply was a cold, blue stare.

Bernard cleared his throat, smiled; Adam could hear the grinding gnash as molar met molar. “She hasn’t been condemned, but she hasn’t been recognized by the city or the county as livable in more than a decade. That may or may not have something to do with the charitable nature of previous owners.” He dropped a conspiratorial wink. “There’s no mail service in place, but you can get yourself a P.O. box any number of places around here. And you’re going to have to depend on Starbucks or Seattle’s Best for your internet, because there’s no set-up for that. There’s a cell tower, though, so your phone should work fine. Electric and water are both in place. I know a guy who can turn you on if you like, but if you over-consume and draw attention your way, well, you’d understand of course that that isn’t my problem.”

Adam narrowed his eyes a bit, the corners of his mouth turning down in ill-disguised disgust. “I don’t need your guy.”

Bernard swelled a bit, clearly annoyed, but something in the stranger’s unaffected posture held back any demonstration he might have considered. Inhaling one last, deep tug, he flicked the butt of the cigarette into the street with his thumb and forefinger. “So, Billy boy,” he fumbled a set of keys from his pocket, “why don’t you follow me and I’ll give you the dime tour?”

“I don’t need a tour.”

Bernard blinked in the moonlight. “You... you’re not interested in seeing inside?”

“The place is furnished?” Adam asked flatly, ignoring the question, his boots still firmly rooted to the blacktop.

“Partially furnished, yes,” Bernard replied. “But we’re not talking showroom chic here, Bill. A lot of this stuff is little more than functional…”

Adam tilted his head back a little, looking down his nose at Bernard as if it were more than just an inch or two that put the man beneath him. “Whatever is in there served your former tenants just fine, did it not?”

It was Bernard’s turn to squint at his prospective buyer. “My former tenants were…” he sniffed briefly, then spat through his teeth, “not in a position to complain.”

“If I were looking for resources to grieve to,” Adam fished a fat manila envelope from his back pocket, “I’d consider purchasing elsewhere.” He handed the parcel over and watched, unaffected, while Bernard’s eyes widened as he sifted the contents. “Have we an agreement?”

Slack-jawed, his arms moving as if by invisible puppet twine, Bernard offered both the deed and the keys in his hands; Adam plucked the paperwork from his loose grasp and shoved it into the pocket he’d just emptied, stifling the urge to wipe his fingers on his jeans. The keys felt warm against his palm, and he turned, taking a few short steps onto the dirt path that ended at the warped wooden steps leading up the front of the dilapidated old house. He could feel Bernard’s gaze burning into his back, and he knew the question was coming even before the man uttered it in a hushed and finally intimidated tone.

“Who are you, Billy boy?”

He kept his back to the man as he replied. “I’m the owner of this property,” he stated coldly. “And you,” he turned his head slowly on his neck, meeting Bernard’s eye with icy resolve, “are trespassing.”

It only took a moment for Bernard to get his suddenly shaking legs moving under him; a moment later, the empty air was filled with scratching sound of gravel kicked up by spinning tires, and the roar of six cylinders launching his vehicle into motion. The tail lights had already vanished around the bend in the road by the time Adam slipped a key into the deadbolt, and his mouth quirked briefly in a reflexive grin as solitude settled around his shoulders like a shroud.

There were half a dozen flashlights lined up on the floor just inside the door, but he didn’t need them. Even if the moonlight hadn’t spilled through the sliver-thin gaps of the boarded up windows in a silvery glow, his eyes easily adjusted to the dim. A sitting room to his right, a dining room to his left, a kitchen behind the wall in front of him that closed off the entryway. He could smell the mud and must that had clung to their shoes and clothes, the half-hearted hope and the full-bodied fear that had leaked from their pores as they shuffled quietly inside. He knew, if he rounded the rooms, those scents would mingle with the aroma of pork and chicken, of kneaded flour and cheap beer.

He opted instead to climb the stairs, the ancient wood groaning pleasantly under the muted thud of his boots. The loft space was brighter; obviously, Bernard and his associates felt no need to barricade against prying eyes on the second floor. Their scents were stronger here, sweat and sun and secrets; he could almost see them, sleeping warehoused on the floors, propped against the walls. He moved easily over the thick, shag carpet, past the worn Victorian sofa, stopping to look out of the house’s open eyes. The Jag slumbered where he left it; he made a mental note to park behind the building in the future. His hands closed around the seams of the heavy coated cotton drapes, pulling them shut against the light that would come peeking cheerfully through in only a few hours.

Three bedrooms; he made his way to the one with the fewest lingering ghosts. The bed was better than he’d expected, four sturdy posts and a soft, deep mattress. It would need new sheets, of course, but for now, he could not have cared less. He undressed slowly, as if in a trance, leaving every article of clothing where it fell against the rug. His jeans were the last to go, and he freed the flask from the pocket before they slid down his thighs to be kicked aside. He crawled to the center and lay on his back, staring morosely at the ceiling before swallowing a conservative sip. He’d made a sizeable dent in the first of his remaining bottles, he knew he’d be a fool not to temper his appetite until he at least had a plan to secure more sustenance.

“Tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath, screwing the lid into place and tucking the burnished silver under the pillow. “Tomorrow… fucking daylight…”

************

Her alarm sounded at five a.m. Emma was less than pleased.

“I am a night shifter,” she groaned into the pillow she’d pulled over her face. “This is _bullshit_.”

When her empty apartment offered no reply, she hurled back the bedsheets and sat up with a grunt. Her tabby stood, stretched, and after a cursory headbutt to her shoulder, hopped gracefully to the floor and ambled out of the room. Yawning and scrubbing her hands over her face, she clambered out of bed herself and heavy-footed her way to the bathroom. She cast a longing eye at the tub before clicking the shower door open, twisting the knob until steam began to rise from the water splashing off the tile.

Twenty minutes later, her thick rope of wet hair twisted into a slick knot atop her head, she stepped into a pair of black scrub pants and pulled the hem of her “Give blood, give life” t-shirt down over the waistband. She hurried into the kitchen to scrape a dollop of apple butter over a toasted bagel, nudging away her pet as he leaned heavily against her leg. “Dude, are you color blind?” she chided, bending to pick away the fine strands of orange and blonde and white he’d left behind. “Scat.” Disdainful eyes cast over his shoulder assured her he would definitely _not_ be scatting anywhere; the stout feline instead sauntered to the over-stuffed sofa, kneading his paws into one plump cushion before curling into a ball of fur and attitude. Shaking her head, Emma filled her travel mug from the pot, taking a sip before snapping the lid in place.

She had just closed her car door and chirped her alarm when a familiar voice called out, her name echoing through the cold morning air in the concrete garage. “Emmaline!”

Shaking off the twinge her formal moniker always sparked at the nape of her neck (twenty-nine years old and it still left her certain she was about to be ordered nose into corner), she adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and turned to the woman walking toward her. “Good morning, Carol,” she smiled, the tiniest trace of a nervous tick at the corner of her brow trebling her vision. “How are you today?”

“Chapped about dragging my ass in on a weekend,” the woman scoffed good-naturedly. “But it’s for a good cause, isn’t it? And we higher-ups can’t exactly expect our people to go the extra mile if we aren’t willing to do the same, right?” She tossed her scarf over her shoulder before sinking her hands into her pockets. “I’m surprised you’re here so early – aren’t you usually crawling into bed right about now?”

Emma nodded ruefully. “Yes, ma’am. But, you know, I was off last night and I won’t be on again until Monday, so…”

“Ah.” The pair stopped at the closed elevator doors, and Carol reached over to punch the call button. “So will you try to stay on a normal daytime schedule until you’re back, then?” The words were barely out of her mouth before Emma’s stretched in a head-splitting yawn. She laughed sympathetically as the younger woman’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I guess that answers that.”

“Excuse me,” Emma offered sheepishly. “I’m so, so sorry!”

They rode to the ground floor in silence, shivered in tandem when the doors slid open on the chill once more. Carol reached over to trace a fingertip along one curve of Emma’s bound hair. “Your violet is showing.”

Emma’s hand flew to the spot, the roses that had just begun to blossom in her cheeks fading quickly. “Oh… oh, great…”

Carol smiled at her, thin, but reassuring. “You should have colored them red for today.”

Forty-five minutes later, her second cup of coffee still warming her belly, Emma settled into her seat beside a freshly-dressed gurney with a sigh, her gloved hands moving methodically over the supplies in front of her. She was soon joined by a strapping UT quarterback with a California smile and a pulse that hiccupped and raced as she tied the tourniquet in place around his bicep. “Relax, big guy,” she squeezed his shoulder gently. “This isn’t my first rodeo…”

“No, ma’am,” he smiled stiffly, a tiny tremor vibrating through his baritone. “You seem to know what you’re doing just fine.” He shifted a bit as she swiped her chosen puncture site with alcohol, his stare glued to the thread of bulging blue beneath his skin.

Smiling quietly to herself as she uncapped her needle, she glanced across the room, furrowing her brow. “You know, I forgot my glasses… would you mind telling me what time it is on that digital clock over there?”

“Huh?” The young man blinked a moment before turning his head. “Oh, sure, ma’am. It’s…”

The sound of his voice fell away, along with those of the other volunteer nurses and donors and the whisper of the air conditioner blowing through the vents. The only thing she could hear, the only thing she could feel, was the rapid but steady pulse of his heart under her finger. One beat, two, and she slid the needle home, quirking the corner of her mouth in triumph at the flash of red that filled the catheter. She had the tubing screwed in place and was tearing tape from the roll to secure the line when her patient turned his head back, his eyes wide with surprise. “Well, hey, now…”

Emma dropped him a wink as she snapped off her gloves. “You’re good to go, cowboy,” she pushed her chair back and stood up smoothly. “Ten, fifteen minutes, okay?”

The collegiate relaxed back into the pillow behind his head, pluck returning to his cheeky grin as he nodded at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

Turning on her heel, Emma stepped around the chair, snagging the clipboard from the foot of the bed to jot her intervention note. Then, with another glance and reassuring smile over her shoulder, she headed back to the sign-in table. “Who’s next, Amy?”

The perky blonde nurse running the intake line handed her the form at the top of her stack, pointing the end of her pen at a young woman busily chattering into her cell phone. “You know,” she grinned lasciviously, “homeboy back there is still staring at your ass.”

“Oh, shut _up_ …”

It was ten minutes after ten when Emma pushed herself into a sitting position on her own gurney, watching as Amy slid the catheter from the pale skin just inside her left elbow and taped a cotton ball in its place. “Pressure,” she chirped, bending her friend’s arm and helping her to her feet. “Snacks… juice…” She pointed before scribbling her own notes on Emma’s consent. “No driving for thirty minutes,” she shook her pen sternly beneath Emma’s nose.

“Yes, Nurse Ratchet,” Emma snarked before crossing to the snack table and slipping into a seat, munching a Nilla wafer before peeling a banana. “Lunch?”

Amy flopped into the chair next to hers, twirling an apple by the stem. “Nah. I’m here ‘til noon, then I told Patricia I’d pick up her back six so she could get an early start to Shreveport.”

Emma nodded as she took a bite of her fruit. “How’s her mother doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” Amy shrugged. “Patty says they’ve got everything they need at the condo, and it should only be a few days before their spot in Christopher House is available, so…”

“Jesus Christ,” Emma shuddered, sitting a bit straighter and rubbing her hands over the goosebumps that had flocked over her bare arms. “What are they keeping it at down here, sixty?” When Amy scrunched her face in confusion, Emma snorted quiet laughter. “Did you not just feel the air kick on?”

“Em, what are you talking about? It’s hotter than Hell in here.” She reached out and touched her friend’s skin, disquiet etching her features at the coolness that met her palm. “You’re not anemic, are you?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no,” Emma shook her head as Amy leaned closer, squinting at her eyes and pressing her fingers to the inside of her wrist.

“Pulse is fine,” she mused, “you’re not sweaty. Feel headachy? Nauseous?”

“Nope,” Emma reassured her with a grin. “Other than a little chilly, I feel just fine.” It was the truth; Emma felt more awake and alert than she had in days. “You sure you don’t want to eat? We don’t have to go out, we can just skip over to the cafeteria and back.”

“No,” Amy pinched her mouth in a show of concern. “Maybe you should lie down for a bit.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Emma popped the last bite of the banana into her mouth. “I’ll sit here a few more minutes, just to be sure.”

“Well,” Amy hummed uncertainly. “Okay…”

“Ladies?”

The warm, rich voice made both girls look up, and Vicente Gabriel bent his knees, bringing himself down to their level. “On behalf of hospital administration, the Central Texas Blood Bank, and the dozens of people whose lives you made healthier today, I would like to thank you most sincerely.”

“Aw, you got it, Dr. G,” Amy grinned flirtatiously. “It’s our pleasure.”

Emma was nodding in agreement when the physician turned his gaze to her. “You’re all finished, yes?”

“I am,” she confirmed.

“Exciting plans for the rest of your weekend?” Vicente asked politely. “Shopping, dancing, partying?”

Emma cocked an eyebrow. “Laundry.”

The trio laughed together as the gentleman lay his hand paternally on her shoulder. “ _Bastante Porcelana_ ,” he chuckled, “that is a shame.”

A few more moments of friendly conversation, and Emma pushed herself back from the table. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to the blood-sucking,” she quipped, tossing her banana peel into a nearby compost bin. “Mr. P. Terry is calling, says he’s got a double cheese with my name all over it.”

“Get a milkshake, too,” Amy urged, rising in time with her, scrutinizing her posture and gait, as she crossed the room to fetch her purse. “Dr. G., walk her to her car, would you?”

“Honestly, Aim,” Emma laughed a little as she pushed her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. “I’m totally fine. I just caught the draft from the A/C, it’s no big deal.”

“It’s no trouble, Emma,” Gabriel lay one hand lightly on her elbow as he gestured to the door. “I left my briefcase in my car, I need to get it before I head to my office anyway.”

“Well, all right then,” Emma sighed in acquiescence. “Who am I to turn down a little old-fashioned chivalry?” She gave her short, blonde friend a brisk hug before signing herself out on the volunteer log. “Give Patty my love when you see her? Tell her I said to please call me if there is anything I can do, day or night.” She waved and said her goodbyes to the other nurses and phlebotomists still manning the drive, then stepped easily from the conference hall with the doctor close behind.

Neither of them noticed the tall, lanky figure dressed head to toe in black, the only skin visible that of his angular face beneath dark sunglasses, leaning against the wall at the far end of the corridor, the large, black, dry umbrella leaning against his thigh.  

Emma and Vicente rode to the fourth floor of the garage in amiable silence. Once they’d arrived, she stepped out with a grin, walking a straight line heel to toe, then spinning and slapping her hands to her sides. Standing ramrod straight, she extended her arms and closed her eyes; she could hear Gabriel laughing as she brought the tip of each index finger to the tip of her nose. “Do I pass muster, Doc?”

“Clean and sober,” he confirmed with a headshake, punching the button for the physician parking level. “I’ll see you next week.”

Emma waved a brisk goodbye before digging her keys from her purse. Slipping behind the wheel of the CX-7, she gunned the engine and cranked the dial on the climate control all the way into the red before glancing over her shoulder and easing the car out of its space. She was rounding the final bend before the garage exit when she caught sight of Dr. Gabriel pulling his briefcase from the backseat of a Honda Civic. She slowed her vehicle, rolled down her window. “Oh, no, Dr. G! Something wrong with the Challenger?”

A brief shadow of humility passed over the man’s face before he squared his shoulders, closing the door and offering her a rueful smile. “Damndest thing,” he shrugged. “Something seized up in the engine, the electrical system went all wonky…”

“That’s awful,” Emma sympathized. “How long ‘til you have him back?”

Gabriel chewed on his answer a moment. “Oh… he’s a wash, Emma.”

“Oh, Dr. G,” Emma cooed gently. “I’m really sorry.”

“Bah, it’s all right,” Gabriel gestured to the car beside him. “I have old Blue, here… ain’t much to look at but he gets me from here to there while I shop for something else.”

“Well, that’s something,” Emma smiled. “Hey, I hear the new Mustang really tears it up…”

Vicente let his head fall back with a laugh. “Eh, maybe, maybe.” He patted the roof of Emma’s vehicle firmly. “You have a good weekend, dear.”

“You, too, Doc.”

The physician smiled and waved as she drove on through the gate, turning left out of the drive. He didn’t feel the laser-focused eyes that were watching him, didn’t sense the keen ears that were listening. And as he spun to return to the main building of the hospital, he didn’t see the man from the basement hallway slink back into the sanctuary beneath the stairwell, his profile a stark, pale shadow in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

The worn and weathered state of the bed was welcoming as he collapsed into it, his frigid fingers groping for the flask tucked under the pillow where he’d left it. He knew draining its contents would mean cracking the seal on the final bottle in his stash; he drained it anyway. The surge of vitality crashed headlong with the fatigue of moving about in open daylight and he closed his eyes, his head back on his neck, his jaw slack as he breathed in the nurturing darkness of the room. He curled his knees into his chest and closed his eyes, watching the mosaic of red and blue and violet swirl behind his lids, listened to the scrabble of some stowaway rodent through the rafters as it fled his company. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he muttered into the pillow before surrendering to the pull of much-needed sleep.

The oppressive sun was well below the horizon when he woke with a groan, feeling hollow and hungover. He rolled to his back with a grimace before pushing himself slowly to his feet. It took a moment for the world to right itself; when it did, he moved soundlessly to the suitcase resting on the chair in the corner of the room. Lifting the battered canvas lid, he tossed the leather jacket draped at the top to the foot of the bed. He rummaged through a few button-downs, a few pairs of jeans, and then the teal green of the scrubs he’d procured years prior peeked out from under his dressing gown. “It worked before,” he muttered to himself, sweeping his t-shirt over his head.

Miles away, in a cracker-box office at the back of the hematology lab, Vicente Gabriel sat at his geometrically organized desktop, his fingers clicking fluidly over his computer keyboard. The drive that had gone on all day and into the evening had been the facility’s most successful to date; when the sea of donors had not evaporated as expected by five p.m., the volunteers had simply continued to call names and man bedsides, collecting their spoils until well after eight. He’d ascended in the elevator with two lab techs, a milk crate full of paper work, and more than a dozen coolers filled to their tops with hermetically sealed bags of blood awaiting processing. He’d swaggered into his office as Hannibal crossing the Alps, but now, two hours later, the feeling of triumph had been well and truly buried beneath an ocean of consents and intake forms, each needing their proper attention before his haul could be tested, divided, and dispensed. Finally, the last of the distributable donations dealt with, he turned to the much smaller stack of forms completed by the donors who faced deferment for one reason or another. That portion of data entry was completed within minutes, and the doctor reached down to open the file drawer on the left hand side of his desk. Flipping through several hanging folders, his hands froze above one titled “Cross Clinic”.

He stared at the label for a few seconds before pulling the benign manila sleeve from its place and flipping it open on his desk. He swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he flipped from page to page: the printed copy of an email received from an old med school acquaintance, the follow-up inquiry sent on official UCLA letterhead, the dossier proposing the development of a state-of-the-art pain management center. It spelled out a brilliant and seemingly foolproof plan, complete with schematics, cost analysis, projected profit ratios. A photograph was tucked among the pages, a glossy four by six of himself, smiling from his seat in a corner booth at McCormick & Schmick’s with Dr. Randall Cross beside him, a burly arm wrapped around his neck.

“That was never going to get off the ground in a place like this.”

The voice was low and smoky, and its unexpected presence sent Vicente reeling back in his chair. “Wha… who… How the hell did you get in here?”

The figure standing at the opposite edge of his desk might not have appeared menacing in any other context, particularly given the location. The lab coat wasn’t starched, but neither was it wrinkled, the scrubs beneath clean and nondescript. The man who wore them was tall and lean, with pale skin and striking blue eyes. Nothing else too remarkable, not the arms crossed at the base of his spine or the surgical cap that covered the dark curls that trailed just to the end of his long and angular neck. The disquiet that settled into Vicente’s gut and prompted him to put another inch of distance between himself and the stranger came from the particulate paper mask tied in place over his visitor’s mouth and nose, obscuring the majority of his face from view. “Who are you?”

“I mean, really, my friend. Austin may be a lovely blue dot, but it’s buried deep in the heart of a blood red state,” the specter purred, a hint of sympathy to his words. “No medical enterprise centered on that curious little flora was ever going to find its footing here, let alone turn a profit or put a founder on the cover of a journal.” He leaned closer, just a bit, and Gabriel knew they could both hear the click in his own throat when he swallowed. “How much did you lose, Doctor?”

Vicente took a breath through his nose and held it for a heartbeat. “I guess you didn’t hear me, _sir_ ,” he spoke evenly but firmly. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

The newcomer exhaled a sigh that dripped with barely tethered patience as he sank into the only other chair in the office. “Your custodial staff is appropriately deferential,” he drolled.

“I’ll speak to the head of housekeeping in the morning,” Vincente sniffed. When the intruder seemed to miss the warning, he reached for the phone beside his desk lamp. “Perhaps I’ll leave word with hospital security, to make sure they remind me.”

“Really, Dr. Gabriel,” Vicente blanched at the sound of his name. “There’s no need for such theatrics, particularly when I’m here to help you.”

The stranger’s quiet words, accompanied by his utter lack of alarm, caused Gabriel’s hand to slide from the receiver to the desktop blotter. His attempt to stare down the frozen blue gaze locked on his own failed, and he slumped ever so slightly against his armrests. “Help me how?”

Vicente had always regarded himself as a man of morals and ethics, with a heart driven to do for others before himself, a nature to give more than he ever took. He believed that honor and ambition were not necessarily mutually exclusive, and that the greater good would always be better served by the marriage of the two. But later, in the moments when he looked back on the conversation that unfolded that night, he was forced to admit to himself that the dialogue exchanged was just gritty window dressing. After weeks of wondering and worrying, of downsizing and scrimping and saving and still coming up short, his decision was made the moment the sizeable envelope hit the surface of his desk.

The stranger never offered a name, and Gabriel never asked for one. He gave no title or proof of tenure, but he spoke of infectious disease with the fluency of any three M.D.’s before offering vague details about his own aborted investigations. He outlined his modest needs that might someday soon lead to the smallest of everyday breakthroughs, tiny innovations that could bring about immeasurable positive change. He was short on specifics, yes, but any researcher worth his salt would always play his cards close to the vest. He wasn’t looking for a practice or a partner, only a procurer. And in the end, the real question was a simple one: someone was going to get the man’s money; why shouldn’t it be him?

The doctor folded his hands on his desk, memorized the landscape of curves and creases in his caramel colored skin.

“Thursday nights are the quietest around here…”

There was no negotiation, no contract, no handshake. The envelope stayed, a unit of O negative left. An unbalanced exchange for the moment, but the stranger didn’t seem concerned. Something told Vicente Gabriel it would all break even in the end.

No one had ever remarked on his mask as he prowled the hallways of the Detroit Medical Center; it appeared things would be no different here. Eyes met his with their flat non-recognition, heads nodded robotically as he passed. The badges around their necks were bland and simple, and he could already think of half a dozen ways to secure one of his own. By the time he was sliding behind the wheel of the Jaguar, he had his agenda for nights to come mapped as clear in his head as any musical score.

The vehicle fit snugly out of sight in the yard behind the house, the headlights provided all the illumination he needed to hotwire a line to the kitchen, and the decrepit old refrigerator chuffed to life when he plugged it into the wall.

He detested the need for the zombie grid, no matter how temporary, but his disgust was offset when he poured a hefty dollop of his freshest haul into his flask with self-satisfied relish. He could smell the doctor in the pores of the plastic bag – the chlorhexidine cleanser mingled with the minty aftershave soaked into his fingertips, the sour odor of the fear in the sweat of his palms – and he was eager to dispose of it. Tilting his head back, he took a measured swallow from the burnished silver before emptying the rest of the bag into the waiting wine bottle, smirking at its commonplace appearance in the refrigerator door. As the crisp, clean bouquet seeped into his palate he closed his eyes, thinking of more pleasant scents – the iron and salt in the separating samples that had been sloshing on the counters of the laboratory, the sharp citrus of the detergent in the doctor’s overcoat, and the almost vanished hint of orchid and almond that lingered on the sleeve of his well-pressed shirt.

“Space,” he murmured to himself, “and supply.”

His footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and he leaned briefly on the bannister as he scanned the loft space with a critical eye. Getting juice to the blandly shaded lamps wouldn’t be difficult, but the work in front of him was best done in the dark. The moth eaten blankets, the battered pillows, the bags of abandoned clothing and the stacks of failed forgeries; with every load hauled down and out, the scents faded, the spirits quieted, and he sighed in relief as he unlocked the hatch of the U-haul at last.

All that was his was unloaded before the morning sun spilled across the dusty scrub of the yard, and the blackout curtains kept it outside as he moved his things into their perfectly patterned disorganization. Dropping the last coil of audio cable to the carpet with a muted thud, he closed his eyes and drew in breath. His lips quirked at the corners as he tasted the Pacharan the luthier had sipped as he threaded nylon through ash and drew it taut. He could smell the solder that fused the circuit boards inside the recorders. He could hear the plastic and vinyl shifting and squeaking as they settled in their cardboard sleeves and boxes.

_Home_ held little meaning for him; but this place just beginning to feel _his_... this would do.

It was almost noon; he could indulge in one last drink before bed. There was an ancient and yellowed copy of The Chronicle lying at the foot of the stairs; Adam plucked it from the floor and eyed it with lazy curiosity as he headed for what he already thought of as his bedroom. Relaxing against the pillow, he flipped page after page. _“Texas Still Leads Nation in Executions”… JoySpeak… Wreckless Eric was at the Red Eye Fly…_ Past the news and the features to the live music schedules and events about town, to the queer and quirky personals and classifieds. Settling in might actually be easier than he’d anticipated.

A slow, silent yawn split his mouth; he chased it with one last, deep drink.

_Settling in…_

************

“Jesus, you could lose weight in here tonight!”

Emma looked up from her book with a half-grin as her neighbor bustled into the laundry room, a full basket of clothes balanced on each of her ample hips. “Hey, Mrs. Sanderson,” she hopped from her perch on one of the dryers with her hands held out. “Here, let me help you with those.”

“Oh, thank you, honey,” the elderly woman released one of her hampers with a sigh of relief, flapping her hand under her chin like a fan. “I mean it… is there a hose loose on one of these damn machines? It’s a goddamn sauna in here.”

Emma shrugged as she began to separate the clothes in the bin by colors. “I guess I didn’t notice.”

Her neighbor’s sniff was half affection, half derision. “Hrmph. Tiny little tart like you probably wouldn’t. You just wait, cutie pie,” she slapped a weathered palm on one of her own well-rounded flanks. “Thirty turns to forty, forty turns to fifty, and before you know it,” Emma giggled indulgently as the woman wiggled her backside with relish, “your yummy little rump roast turns to cottage cheese.”

“Oh, Mrs. Sanderson, trust me,” Emma reassured her, dumping the two loads she’d sorted into machines and holding her hand out for the older woman’s detergent. “I’ve got plenty of dairy in my derriere already.” She poured the soap then helped feed quarters into the control panel as the other woman set the dials and closed the lid. Then, pushing her bangs back from her forehead, she hopped back into the spot she’d left and picked up her book once more.

“ ** _Unnatural Exposure_** ,” Mrs. Sanderson squinted at the spine. “I don’t suppose that’s a romance.”

Emma huffed a small laugh through her nose as she turned a page. “No, definitely not a romance,” she confirmed. “More a medical murder mystery.”

The older woman wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you get enough of that at work, sweetheart?”

Emma laughed again, glancing up at her neighbor before devouring another paragraph. “Oh, Mrs. S, nothing this exciting ever happens at work. Not when I’m around, anyway.”

“Seriously?”

Emma nodded, dropping the open novel to her thigh. “Seriously. The most intriguing thing that happened last week was when I had to give a COPD patient a talking to for propositioning a med student and then trying to grab the respiratory therapist’s ass.”

“Ugh,” Mrs. Sanderson rolled her eyes in disgust. “Old men can be so despicable,” she tutted over the beep of the dryer.

“This one,” Emma hopped down once again with a grin, “was a woman.”

Half an hour later, her reading tucked among the pile of warm folded towels and hospital scrubs, Emma let herself back into her apartment and closed the door with a sigh. Reflexively flipping the deadbolt, she crossed to her bedroom to put her laundry away, pressing the power button on her stereo as she passed. The turntable arm lowered, and the bouncy twang of The Beatles “Taxman” began to hiccup from the speakers. A set of amber eyes glared at her from the center of her mattress, and a disdainful yowl made her quirk her mouth in an apologetic grin. “Sorry, Nem,” the cat arched tempestuously away from her as she leaned over to scratch behind his mangled ear. “I’m just not tired.”

Once her clothes and towels had found their way to their proper places in her closet, Emma plucked her book from the empty basket and padded out to the kitchen, pouring herself a generous glass of Shiraz. Pulling the clips from atop her head, she shook her hair down from its knot as she tucked herself under the well-worn quilt that draped the back of the sofa, then swallowed a healthy sip before flipping the novel to the page where she’d left off.

The needle of her record player was sliding on the slick vinyl around the _Revolver_ label and the killer had been caught when the first edge of the morning sun peeked through the venetian blinds on her living room window. Emma set the book aside with a satisfied stretch and downed the last swallow of her wine with a sigh. Tossing aside the blanket with a yawn, she stood and stretched, crossing to look briefly out at the world waking up. A low and misty fog hugged the roots of the Spanish oaks that bordered the driveway; from their branches, the mourning doves cooed their soft greetings. A man from the building to her right emerged from his garage, zipping up his hoodie before heading off down the jogging path that wound through the trees. A woman from across the lot scuttled to her car, using her briefcase as a shield against the brisk February breeze.

A furry nudge at her ankle drew her attention down, and she bent to lift the hefty feline into her arms. “Suckers, huh, Nemesis?” She rubbed her fingers over the animal’s smooth skull, listening to the rattling purr that vibrated through his chest. “They’re all off to start the grind, and us?” She dropped a kiss to the cat’s pink nose, much to his chagrin. “We’re off to bed.” His tail flipped against her arm as she carried him into the bedroom and plopped him unceremoniously at the foot of the bed; he shot her a withering glance before aggressively grooming his ruffled haunches. Drawing the curtains, Emma checked her cellular to make certain her four p.m. alarm was set before crawling under the linens and curling around her pillow. The remote control to the television dug into her hip, and she fished it out, tossing it to her nightstand without a second thought.

All was still shrouded in black when her eyes opened, calm but clear, just a few hours later. The only light in the room was the muted glow that spilled under the door, the only sound was the rough, feline rumbling against the small of her back. She didn’t have to see the clock to know she was awake too soon but she sat up anyway, turning her head on her neck to glance at the digital numbers on her cable box.

12:02 p.m.

_What woke me up?_

She chewed briefly on her bottom lip, listening for a knock at her front door, a ringing phone, a car horn or an emergency siren. But there was nothing, save for the purr of her cat and the whisper of the apartment heater, steadily chuffing warm air through the vent above her head. She shivered, then realized.

_Jesus… I’m freezing… fucking February…_

It only took a stretch of her upper body to snag the extra blanket folded against the wrought iron of her footboard, and she pulled it up over the other bedclothes before sinking back into her nest of pillows. Nemesis gave an indignant yowl, scuttling out from under the heavy fleece, a static crackle popping from his orange and yellow fur. With a haughty “what the fuck has gotten into you?” sniff, the cat bounded to the floor, flouncing his wounded dignity into the bathroom.

“Sorry, buddy,” Emma yawned, tucking the covers beneath her chin, already settled in and half asleep once more. A sudden gust of wind rattled the glass in the pane, and she burrowed down deeper, closing her eyes with a sigh.

On the other side of Austin, another pane of glass, another chattering rattle.

Adam set his flask aside, thought briefly of the scent of orchid and almond, and closed his eyes as well.


	4. Chapter 4

He’d known there were riches to be found the moment he’d dragged back the weathered gate of the picket fence, letting the rusty spring-loaded hinges creak as it shut behind him once more.

The sprawling ranch-style house at the end of the path was old, the barn two hundred yards behind it was even older. He couldn’t see the herd of Angus bedded down along the ground between, smelling of Johnsongrass and mud and manure, but he could hear their occasional soft grunts and gentle lowing. The bay of a coonhound rose lazily at his approach, the bug-littered light above the front door of the house winked on a moment later. The heavy oak panel swung open with a wooden groan, and a strapping man with a shock of black hair and sturdy steel-rimmed glasses stepped into its frame, wiping his oily hands on a blue and white bandana. “You the feller that called about the rummage?”

Adam stopped short of stepping up onto the porch, his hands still deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I am.”

Fifteen minutes later, in a shed that smelled of Brut cologne and gasoline, he pulled off his gloves and let his bare fingers trace over the prints left behind by someone else’s past. The generator in the corner was from 1942, and still carried dusty traces of the sawmill in Laredo where it first coughed to life. The mildewed tool hamper was filled with all manner of rusted treasure, including a well-used woodworking kit tucked next to mint condition needle-nose pliers. The Louis XIV sofa was all but hidden beneath a shoddy knockoff of a Persian rug, and its royal blue chenille was popped and worn in several spots, but it too took its place in the hatch of the U-Haul behind the Jag.

Finally, Adam turned to his host with a neutral stare. “The ad mentioned a mandolin.”

The case was brass and fine leather. The birdseye maple beauty inside was even finer.   Her broad belly was silky smooth beneath the lacquer, her nylon strands stretched elegantly over her bridge, and her sigh when Adam passed a reverent fingertip over them was pure and true. He held his breath a moment as he lifted her from her velvet bed, caressed the rounded bowl of her back, tested the tuning keys along her head. It left him slowly, in a heady wave. “Apeldoorn,” he murmured softly, “nineteen twenty-four.”

“Beg pardon?” His brawny host leaned closer.

Adam managed not to bristle at the proximity, slipping the instrument back into the case. “She’s from Holland,” he muttered quickly.

“Oh, well, that’d make sense. My grandad trucked it back with him… what’d that be? Nineteen and forty-six. Taught m’dad to play it; he tried to teach me.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose with a sniff. “Never did take to it m’self.”

Adam allowed himself the brief respite of an eye roll as he snapped the case shut before turning to face the rancher once more. “So,” he grasped the handle, “how much?” He gestured towards the full trailer as well. “For the lot?”

“Now, you said cash, right?” The stranger raised his eyebrows expectantly, but Adam’s appearance remained coolly aloof as he nodded. “I guess I could cut you a deal… say… twenty five hundred?” The man clearly expected resistance, but Adam’s face remained expressionless as he dug the folded bills from his back pocket and handed them over.

_Fucking zombie idiot… the bowlback alone could fetch five grand…_

As his car navigated the dusty back roads of Bastrop, he reached over to flip the case open once again on the seat beside him. He lay his palm on the mandolin’s face, his thumb lovingly stroking the curve of one edge. He could smell tulips and sweet hay, hear the soft nicker of a young gelding, the creak of an old wooden rocking chair. He plucked the A string, the D, the G, then strummed an open chord with a flick of his fingers. She’d need a bit of tuning, but she’d sing sweet when he was through with her.

The tools and the generator took their place by the back porch steps; he made a mental note to strip the copper wiring from the lower floors first thing the following evening. He moved the Louis in parallel to the Victorian and grinning at the elegant discord, he sank down onto the worn cushions with a weary sigh. The Gretsch was in tune, and even without a working amp, it was a relief to purge the melody droning in his head through the steel strings. He was halfway through and nearing crescendo when the same scrabbling rattle that had plagued him for days echoed above his head, jarring him from the rhythm of his internal score. With a muted snarl, he thrust the guitar aside and crossed to the narrow door at the end of the hall.

The area at the top of the dozen rickety stairs was too small to be a third floor, too large to be an attic. The moonlight through the frosted glass of the circle window spilled across boxes and crates and all manner of sundry left by the former tenants during their hasty evacuation; more ghosts to be exorcised on a night where his head was quieter and schedule emptier. He stepped around cardboard islands and canvas boulders, seeking the source of the _scritch-scratch_ that set his teeth on edge.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

It wasn’t difficult to catch the mother raccoon, and her three masked toddlers waddled into the box beside her amiably enough. He carried them down and out the back door, past the edge of the property line to the modest ridge of trees whose naked limbs seemed to wave in welcome on the breeze. He watched them scamper into the underbrush before turning on his heel and heading back to the house. He walked the perimeter until he found the breach, one rotted plank at the corner of the foundation. It had been clawed, chewed, and then finally pushed aside, like a door hanging open on its hinges.

It was midnight by the time he’d boarded over the gap and unhitched the trailer; it only took a few moments to swap his button-down and jeans for his scrubs and lab coat. He drove the rural roads in darkness, flipping the headlights on only when the luminescence of I-35 appeared on the horizon. The temptation of downtown was easy to resist; most Austinites were home and asleep, resting up for their morning commute and TGIF afternoons. He would prowl the sidewalks and alleys unnoticed tomorrow, smell and taste the air, listen to the sounds, learn the pulse of the city and its citizens; tonight, his focus was elsewhere.

************

“One… two… three!”

Emma pulled herself into a standing position, hefting the heavily casted body of her patient to his feet as well as he hissed his discomfort in her ear. “Hang in there, Mr. Boyd,” she encouraged, just a tad breathlessly, “just a turn and a step and you’re there.”

“Make it… sound… so easy, don’t you?” The middle-aged man huffed between grunts, biting back a pained snarl as Emma lowered him back into his bed.

“That was easy,” she grinned, blowing her bangs out of her eyes as she lifted his legs to the mattress and pulled the blankets up over the fresh bandages. “And now?” She pulled a capped syringe from her breast pocket with a waggle of her eyebrows. “A shot of the good stuff, you’ll sleep like a baby.” Snapping off her gloves, she doused her hands with disinfectant before donning new ones and tracing the IV tubing to clean the access port. “Need anything else before I dope you up?”

“Yeah,” the fellow in the bed drawled, deadpan sarcasm, “could you find me a more chipper nurse? You’re draggin’ down the mood in here.”

“And you’ve been dragged enough, I take it,” she cut him a playful side-eye as she pressed the plunger of the syringe, easing the narcotic into the line.

“Hey, young lady,” her patient scowled at her. “Road rash ain’t nothin’ to laugh at.”

“I would never laugh at you, sir,” Emma tossed the empty syringe into the disposal before snapping her penlight to life, briefly checking her patient’s pupils. “At least you were wearing your helmet.”

Another shuffle of pillows, a check to make sure Mr. Boyd’s call light was in reach, and Emma stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. A nudge to her hip made her jump, and she turned to her fellow RN with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” Amy leaned her head close, her voice dropping conspiratorially as the two fell in tandem, continuing down the hospital corridor. “Have you seen the kidney stone in 16?”

“The stone?” Emma pulled a grimace. “No, thank you.”

“Bitch, the _guy_!” She tittered impishly against Emma’s shoulder. “Thirty-two, eyes of blue, works for Dell, thighs like fucking tree trunks…”

“You do know,” Emma shook her head in amused exasperation, “that you’re not supposed to be using this place as a dating pool, right?”

“He has a twin, Em,” the blonde grabbed her arm and tugged for emphasis. “ _A twin_!”

“Oh, my God,” Emma paused to stick her head into the room of another patient, pulling the door closed on the soft snoring within. “I am not having this conversation.”

“Hey,” Amy snorted defensively, “there may be rules about seeing patients on the outside.” She skipped around the corner of the nurse’s station before plopping into one of the chairs. “But if twinsey should happen to come by to check on his poor little brother…”

“And should he happen to run into little brother’s darling and dedicated nurse…” Emma rolled her eyes as she leaned over the acrylic countertop.

“I might be persuaded to offer my number,” Amy finished with a flourish, sliding her chair closer and propping her chin on her arms.

“You,” Emma waggled a finger at her, “are disgusting.”

“I’m adorable.”

“You’re easy!”

“I’m available!” Amy flipped her sharp bob over her shoulder. “And, unlike some of us,” she scrunched her expression in mock judgement, “I’m open to doing something about it.”

“Oh, you’re open, all right…” Emma laughed, easily catching the ballpoint her friend chucked at her and sticking it into the bun twisted atop her head. She was preparing to round the station and take a seat of her own to update her charting when a door flew open down the hallway to her right, a flurry of exasperated Spanish erupting from the other side.

“ _Dios en el cielo esta mujer me esta volviendo batshit!_ ”

Shooting Amy a knowing, weary grin, she spun on her heel and headed for the source. Marina pulled the door closed behind her, leaning in the jamb with her chin on her chest. Her hands were clenched into fists as she continued to mutter under her breath in her native tongue, and Emma lay a soothing palm on her arm. “Mare?”

“ _Jesús Cristo_ , Emmaline,” the tiny woman shook her head in a flurry. “I’m a woman of patience but this is _tan ridículo_ …” Her words continued, rapid fire Spanish that Emma understood more from her gesticulation and expression than vocabulary. “She’s starving! But I bring her _la comida_ and she doesn’t want to eat! She wants to get up to the toilet, then she doesn’t have to use the toilet! I get her back in bed, she goes to the toilet all over the sheets. She’s crying, she doesn’t want to sit in _la caca_ , she’s crying because I’m giving her a bath!” The petite Latina raked her fingers through her hair as she paused at last for a breath. “I finally get _la vieja bruja gris_ clean and settled and I’ll be goddamned if her IV isn’t completely shot.” Her mocha brown eyes met Emma’s, flashing fire and desperation.

“I’ve got it, Mare, I’ve got it,” Emma squeezed her elbow as she led her to the desk.

It only took a few moments for her to deposit the frazzled woman in a chair, then step into the supply closet to collect the equipment she needed. Returning to the room Marina had evacuated in such a hurry, she knocked gently on the door before entering. “Mrs. Garner?”

The woman in the bed was only in her fifties, but the ravages of stage three breast cancer and the treatments meant to arrest it left her looking much older. Red-rimmed eyes stared out at her from beneath patches of dull, grey hair, limbs of not enough skin stretched over too much bone crossed defensively over a surgically flattened chest. “Mrs. Garner,” she continued, “my name is Emma. Marina asked me if I could help you with a new IV…”

The skeletal figure turtled back into the pillows behind her at Emma’s slow, calm approach. “You bitches and your goddamn needles,” she snapped in a watery voice. “Can’t you just tap my fucking port?”

“Mrs. Garner,” Emma lay a gentle hand on the woman’s knee. “Your port is infected. That’s why you’re here, remember…?”

A few moments of gentle cajoling and two tense needle-sticks later, and the necessary electrolytes and antibiotics were flowing once again. Wiping the fine mist of perspiration from her forehead and upper lip, Emma switched off the overhead light, offering a soft goodnight to Mrs. Garner’s already turned back. Stretching her arms over her head and blowing out breath through puffed cheeks, she returned to the nurse’s station, flopping tiredly into a chair as Marina looked at her expectantly. “You got one?”

“Right upper cephalic,” Emma winked, blowing on her fingernails before polishing them on her scrub top as the other nurse genuflected and blew her a kiss.

“You, girly, are on my list,” Marina sighed. “One more minute with that cranky ass and I’d have stuck a needle in her eye…”

“You know,” Emma shot her a not entirely unsympathetic frown, “it’s not exactly her fault she’s so miserable.”

A flash of guilt passed over Marina’s features, and Amy rolled her chair closer to shoulder bump the older woman reassuringly. “Dr. Margoles is her oncologist,” she teased lightly. “With that silver fox all over her chest on a regular basis, what exactly does she have to be miserable about?”

“Oh, my God!” Emma exclaimed as the other two RN’s dissolved into tension-breaking giggles. “Would you just buy a vibrator already?”

Rolling her eyes and arching her back until her spine crackled, Amy glanced at the clock, then bounced to her feet. “Coffee!”

“Ooh, girl, I’m gonna come with you,” Marina bent double to drag her purse from the cabinet beneath her charting spot. “Emma,” she muttered as she rummaged through keys and cosmetics in search of her wallet, “the usual?”

“Yes, please!” Emma was reaching for her own bag when Marina flapped an impatient hand at her, then leaned back with an easy grin. Her colleagues, brightened by the prospect of fresh air and caffeine, fairly skipped around the counter; Emma shook her head affectionately at their backs as they ambled down the hall towards the elevators. Marina was already busy clicking away at her phone, and did not appear to mind that Amy was talking. Amy, in fact, was chattering a mile a minute, but to her credit, did not seem bothered by the fact that Marina wasn’t listening. “What a pair…” Emma giggled to herself as she rolled her chair under the desk, wiggling the mouse beneath her hand to wake the sleeping computer in front of her.

Her fingers began to tick over the keyboard with ease as she charted each assessment, every intervention she’d performed so far. Her handwritten notes were tucked into the back pocket of her scrubs as usual. And, as usual, they stayed there. She yawned absently as she scrolled from screen to screen, patient to patient, checking and double-checking her spelling, her time stamps, her calculations. She reviewed and confirmed each patient’s pending medication schedule, then logged a few newly posted lab results before sliding smoothly to the printer, grabbing the reports that would need to be filed with each bedside chart. Finally, with a quick glance down the hall and sad little smile, she opened her status board and added Raquel Garner (age 54, married, mother of two) to her list.

She was halfway through her intervention note when an exquisitely sharp shiver danced from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, and her hands paused briefly above the computer keys as every hair on her body rose abruptly to attention. From down the corridor, the familiar chime heralded the arrival of the elevator, and Emma exhaled a disarmed sigh through her nose. _They better have remembered the sugar,_ she thought to herself, a hint of wry sass ghosting over her features. Approaching footsteps drifted to her ears and she resumed her typing, fingers moving a bit faster, head cocked and mouth open to admonish the girls aloud.

She glanced up, and her body hovered lax and still, the words dying on her lips. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart paused in her chest as the rest of the world slowed to a deliciously heavy crawl.

The eyes that locked with hers were the most flawless crystalline blue she’d ever seen, framed by sooty lashes beneath a guarded, angular brow. She could sense no recognition, and only the barest hint of acknowledgement, but the clear irises and finely dilated pupils were far from empty. His gaze travelled over her like a caress, leaving an icy fire burning in its wake. His eyes were all she beheld and yet, she saw him - every long, lean inch of him gliding down the hallway at a calm yet purposeful, carefully measured pace. From dark curls tickling his neck beneath the seam of a bland and boring scrub cap to the well-worn lab coat fluttering around slender yet more than capable limbs. All of him - pale, perfect skin and long, elegant fingers. All of him - save for his mouth and nose, hidden by the surgical mask tied behind his head.

Fifty-seven familiar paces of scuffed and sanitized tile stretched into miles of eternity at his approach, his gaze never wavering, his stride never breaking. Closer, and closer still, and Emma sat straighter in her chair, waiting for the inevitable pause at the counter. He stopped, never looking away, his stare so intense she never even heard the muted buzz of the call bell, never heard the metallic _chink_ of the bolt to the hematology lab ratcheting back to grant him access. A silent pause as he pulled the door open, and she felt gravity return in a heated rush as the connection severed. And then, as her drunken brain reeled under the effort of remembering how to breathe, he turned. With a hydraulic whine and flat, unimportant _snick,_ the opaque glass with the chipped laminate lettering clicked shut, and even his silhouette was gone.

Her hands still rested limply on the keyboard, the toes of her clogs were still hooked under the footrest of her chair. The goosebumps that had taken flight across her body had settled back into the smooth landscape of her skin; even her heart lubbed languidly in the confines of her chest. But once again, in a way she couldn’t quite explain, Emma was awake.

Vicente Gabriel was staring moodily at the spreadsheet glowing on the screen before him when the trill of call bell made him start in his chair. His hand had fluttered to the lock release before his eyes had even focused on the screen of the security monitor, but it didn’t matter.

He knew who had come to call.

The exchange took less than five minutes; he really couldn’t have asked for a smoother give-and-take. Polite, punctuated greetings - his deep, velvet “Good evening, Doctor”, Gabriel’s calm but clipped, “Welcome back”. Adam dropped the envelope easily into the open drawer as Vicente crossed to the refrigerator in the corner; he could smell the cold, clean chemistry in the metallic cylinders, could hear the serum sloshing within as they took their place in his second-hand medical grade cooler. Dr. Gabriel sank back into his chair, suddenly gripped with an unshakeable need to be hard at work once more. Wordless nods, and it was done.

It wasn’t difficult to keep his expression neutral as he pulled the door open once more, centuries of practice beneath his belt. She was still there, as he’d expected she’d be; her eyes snapped to his, as he’d known they would. He held them the length of the corridor once more, observant, aloof. Curiosity and question bubbled in their emerald depths, but he already knew his silence and her uncertainty would keep any efforts towards small talk at bay. An hour, maybe two, a patient needing pain control and a less-than-chipper dayshift relief, and he’d be less than a memory. The elevator doors opened in front of him, the two nurses who exited barely spared him a glance. The warm aroma from their coffee cups wafted pleasantly over him, underscored by their own scents of citrus and spice.

But it was hers that he carried, a casual connection, an unimportant afterthought.

Orchid… and almond.


	5. Chapter 5

There were exactly thirty-seven violet teardrops illuminated by the thin shaft of sunlight spilling across the paisley pattern on her bedsheets from the open seam of the curtains. She knew, because she’d been counting them endlessly for over an hour. Emma hugged her pillow closer to her chest, squinted at the digital readout beneath her television screen.

1:42 p.m.

_Fuck,_ her brain grumbled morosely between her ears. _Worked my ass off last night… one more night to go… should have been asleep four fucking hours ago._

She rolled onto her back, pulling the pillow along with her and growling an exasperated sigh into its downy depths. From its mate a few inches away, a sleepy pair of amber eyes blinked open, then narrowedin disdain as the tabby rose, stretched, and lumbered to the foot of the bed. Emma glanced up in time to see him cast a disdainful look over his shoulder as if to ask, yet again, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Sorry, Nem,” she apologized through a yawn. “I wish I knew.”

_Lying to the cat,_ her brain chirped mockingly. _Cute._

Scowling at the pockmarked ceiling, she clawed her fingers briskly over her scalp. Truth was, she knew exactly what was wrong with her, and it wasn’t cute at all. Or maybe it was. She’d never seen his entire face, and so she didn’t know for sure. But… those eyes… She closed her own, grateful for the empty blackness, however fleeting it would be.

For six months she’d been growing increasingly restless in her own skin. Six months of worsening sleep patterns, eroding attention spans, shortening nerves. Six months of nothing new… except him. Six months of nothing different… except him. Six months, six nights, six encounters, six silent stares that held her captive, that cooled her flesh as they warmed her blood. He floated in, always catching her gaze, always holding it, holding _her_ , until a heartbeat before the lab door opened, and then again before retreating down the corridor once more, rounding the corner and disappearing from sight. No one else ever seemed to note his presence, he never seemed to care. He walked his path, tended to whatever business was his, and took his leave. He made no introduction, offered no conversation; in fact, he’d never uttered a single sound. He gave her no reason to think about him beyond the moments he shared her presence.

_And yet…_ She hurled the pillow to the floor in a childish demonstration of frustration. _I can’t fucking get him out of my head._

It was just his eyes at first. They came to her at odd moments after that first night – sitting in line at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf drive through, John Legend crooning through the car speakers. Tapping her debit card against the digital display that totaled up her modest grocery tab. Leaning against the wall of the elevator as it carried her to her duties on the fifth floor of the hospital. Those eyes, cool blue oceans around islands of black, stories of what she was certain was a very interesting life swirling beneath their surface. Never drawn and sleepy at the corners, never wide, or harried, or even distracted. Laser focused, he looked at her as if he expected her to be there, as if he expected her to stay there, as if she only existed during those moments she was caught in that calm cobalt gaze.

During those moments, it felt completely true.

And then it was his gait. He moved with grace and purpose, long legs scissoring at the same easy, measure pace. He never rushed his step, never paused or deviated from his course. His lab coat fluttered smoothly as he walked, and it occurred to her, more than once, that his scrubs were just a hint too big. After that, it was his hands. Long, capable fingers always gloved in snug-fitting nitrile, the left always curled around the same handle of the same cooler that looked like a million others she’d seen carried to and fro. Finally, a burning curiosity about what lay beneath those sterile surgical masks tied at the back of his head and neck. Moustache? Beard? Or was he always impeccably shaved? Were his lips full and lush, or thin and firm? Had his nose ever been broken, or did it sit straight and true between his cheeks? And speaking of cheeks, were they plump and rosy? Pale and gaunt? Did he have dimples? Laugh lines? Would his smile show perfect, even teeth?

Did he ever even smile at all?

The morning after his third visit, she’d thought about him in the shower, as her soap-slicked palms paused in their journey over her breasts. She’d felt her cheeks flush, allowed herself a small, girlish giggle as she teased her flesh to stiff, pebbled peaks before clearing her head with a brisk shake. That was May; she’d traded the purple in her rebel locks for a playful hot pink. She recalled how she’d twisted one around the fingers of her left hand, tugging it instinctively as the fingers of her right worked the oft neglected folds between her legs to a brief but bitingly satisfying climax. When June rolled around, she’d taken him to bed with her, one arm flung over her eyes as she arched into the battery operated surrogate whose buzz drowned out the tiny detail of not even knowing his name to cry out to the empty air.

In July, he’d begun to come to her; sweaty, secret dreams that left her hungry and hungover. Her imagination sculpted the perfect body, of course: manly smooth skin, sinewy muscle, just enough downy hair to make the landscape interesting. Powerful arms, strong, certain hands, toned and defined legs. And yet, she could never remember her over-stimulated brain filling in any of the missing details of his face. Hidden in shadow, buried between her breasts, between her legs, or out of sight as she threw her head back in pleasure. No name, no visage. Only eyes that captivated her, an aura that drew her in… and a smile that always curled against her neck just before she woke.

“This is _bullshit,”_ Emma muttered to the room, pounding an impotent fist into the comforter. The room, of course, offered no answer. Rolling over and snagging her pillow from where she’d flung it to the floor, she flopped back against the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut and kicking her feet in a tiny short-lived tantrum. They popped open a heartbeat later, and her arm reached out impulsively to snag her phone from the nightstand. She squinted at the flash of illumination as she hit the home button, and then her breath caught in her throat.

“Thursday,” she whispered tremulously. “It’s Thursday…”

She didn’t remember sinking back into the pillow, her arm falling slack at her side. All she knew was that, almost three hours later, the device bleated from where it lay still loosely clasped in her fingers to rouse her for the day. She silenced the alarm, sat up resolutely, swinging her feet to the floor. “Thursday.”

She lingered in the shower a bit longer than usual, letting her conditioner soak into the ends of her long, dark hair. She dressed in the little-worn scrubs she saved for staff meetings and education days, the navy blue still dark and crisp instead of faded from laundry cycle after laundry cycle. The top was more form fitting than functional, the flare at the ankles of the trousers gave her stride a whispering, willowy grace. She wicked a hint of kohl to the corners of her grey-green eyes, lengthened and curled her lashes, lined and darkened her lips a desert rose before glossing them to a shine. Her streaks were now a fiery red, only just technically a natural hue; she left them clearly visible in the flirty braided knot she twisted and pinned atop her head.

Finally, she reached past her atomizer, twisting the top off the small violet bottle beside it. The scent was the same, only stronger; she touched only the tiniest drop of the perfumed oil to the soft skin behind each ear. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Opening them at last, she fixed her gaze on her reflection.

_Stand up straight. Head up, shoulders back, confident. Smile. Polite, friendly, NOT flirty._

“Hey there, Doc! I’m Emma, I just wanted to say hi…”

_Flippant. You sound like a total airhead._

She cleared her throat. “Hey, Doctor, you may know this by now, what with your coming by all the time, but I’m Emma…”

_Jesus, THAT’S not contrived at all! Besides, he doesn’t come by all the time so that just sounds desperate and pathetic._

Gritting her teeth, she stared down her reflection, leaning on hands that were balled into fists against the vanity counter.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” calm, quiet, firm, “you seem to be a new regular on staff and I’ve been wanting to introduce myself. My name is Emma.”

A moment of silence, and her lips curled in a small, satisfied smile.

_Now, just don’t lose your nerve…_

She remembered throw her lip gloss into her purse, in case she wanted to freshen it later. She remembered to pass the lint roller over her cuffs before dashing out the door. She remembered to ask the girl at Tinos to hold the onions, then snagged a tin of Altoids from the hospital gift shop anyway. She remember to snag one of the few working travelling computers so she could chart as she worked. She skipped her usual pre-shift chat with Amy, opting instead to review her patient’s progress notes early, and traded her normal conversational greetings with the rest of the staff for polite nods and waves. More than once during those first long hours, she felt her friend’s eyes light on her with slightly annoyed curiosity, side-stepped a, mildly concerned “Hey, are you okay?” with a cool and breezy “Yep, just busy.”

Finally, midnight meds delivered and five patients all miraculously asleep, she sank into a chair at the nurse’s station with a shuddery sigh. She was just finished with the organization of her paper charts when the familiar squeak of sneakers filled her ears. “All right, give,” Amy grabbed a chair of her own, pulling it next to Emma and straddling it backwards. She leaned over the backrest, staring intently. “What crawled up your ass tonight?”

“What?” Emma brushed her bangs from her eyes with a small smile.

“Don’t give me that ‘what’,” the petite blonde scolded. “You’ve been pissy for weeks and I’ve been willing to overlook it because you’ll still crack a joke and a smile here and there. But tonight you’re just in full-on bitch-mode…”

“I am not in bitch-mode,” Emma scoffed with a giggle she hoped sounded normal instead of nervous.

“Well, you’re pretty fucking close,” Amy’s tone was a mixture of irritation and affection. “Come on, Emma, tell me. What the hell is wrong with you lately?”

“Amy,” Emma shook her head with as much affected ignorance as she could muster. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Amy pushed her chair away, tossing her hair in petulance. “You’re off, and you know it. You’re distracted, you’re disinterested. You show up to work like you couldn’t wait to get here but by two in the morning you’re dragging like someone tied an anchor to your ass.”

“Well,” Emma cut her eyes to the side in a display of self-reflective consideration. “I really haven’t been sleeping well lately…”

“Okay, look,” Amy pursed her lips briefly. “I have kept my mouth shut because we’re friends. But now I’m going to say something. Because we’re friends.” She reached over and brushed a strand of hair from Emma’s forehead. “If you are finally ready for this to happen,” she gestured kindly to Emma’s face and form, “this is not gonna do it.”

Emma furrowed her brow immediately. “What are you talking about?”

“Em,” Amy lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I am not saying it’s a sure thing, no matter what you do. I mean… I’ve been watching as much as you have, and I still don’t have him figured out either.” Her grip tightened gently as Emma stiffened in her chair. “But I do know this: subtle is not going to get you anywhere with that man. If you want him, you’re going to have to make a first move that he’ll see as _the first move_.” Emma’s stomach hitched as Amy smiled at her sympathetically. “Honestly, Em, your best bet is to just walk right up to him and say something like, ‘Dr. Gabriel, I think we should grab a drink and get to know one another a little better…’”

The laughter that bubbled up through Emma’s chest was born more of relief than amusement, but it spilled from her lips all the same. “Dr. Gabriel?” She snorted softly. “You think I’m into Dr. Gabriel.”

“Oh, come on,” Amy shoved her a bit with a scoff. “Like you’re not… like none of us are. Come on, Em, I’m not blind. He’s tall, he’s tan, he’s an MD. He’s distinguished, he’s dignified, he’s divorced. He doesn’t so much speak as he makes love to language and if his tongue can do _that_ to his consonants…”

“Oh, dear God,” Emma threw up a hand. “Stop.”

“What?” Amy’s expression clouded. “You’re seriously telling me you aren’t into Dr. Gabriel?”

“I’m seriously telling you I’m not into Dr. Gabriel.”

The blonde’s shoulders slumped. “You’re seriously telling me you’re not into Dr. Gabriel.” She scrunched her face into a moue of disappointment. “Then what…” She rested her chin on her hands. “What’s going on, Emma?”

Emma leaned back in her own chair, blowing her bangs off of her forehead. “Honestly, Aim, it’s nothing. I don’t know. It’s everything.” She offered a small but sincere smile. “Just… life, you know.”

Amy wiggled her mouth is skeptical contemplation. “If it’s not Dr. G., is it… some other guy?” She narrowed her eyes. “Is there a guy?”

“Oh, Aim,” Emma sighed heavily. “There’s no guy. Honestly. There’s no guy. Maybe that’s the problem,” she conceded reluctantly, “that there’s no guy…”

Amy brightened immediately, the balls of her feet drumming rapidly against the tile. “Well, we can fix that…”

“No, no, stop,” Emma sat straighter. “I’m not looking to fix it, necessarily. I mean… not in the way _you’re_ thinking.”

“Oh, come on, Em…”

“No,” she shook her head firmly. “I’m not into trolling.”

“Well,” Amy stretched, sighed, then scooted across the floor to dig her wallet out of her bag. “Wasn’t it you who said you can’t use _this_ place as a dating pool?” She slipped a few bills into her palm before throwing her purse back into the cabinet. “Coffee time. I’ll buy, you fly?”

Emma’s eyes shot to the clock, her mouth immediately dry as anticipation tingled at the nape of her neck. “Oh, uh, actually… thanks,” she shifted against the leather cushion beneath her, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “but I think I just want to sit and chill a bit.”

“You sure?” Amy cocked her head uncertainly. “Fresh air might do you good.”

“Nah,” Emma demurred. “Besides, one a.m. or not, it’s hotter than the shades of Hell out there.”

“All right,” Amy shrugged and bounced to her feet. “I’ll still grab you one…”

The other nurse continued to prattle on for moment as she swayed her way down the hall, but Emma didn’t hear a word. She closed her eyes and drew deep breaths in through her nose, exhaling slowly through her mouth. She could hear the quiet thunder of his shoes on the floor, always the same smooth steady rhythm. She could see the long, narrow shadow that would stretch across the tile before him. And, of course, she could see those eyes… his eyes. Would they widen in surprise? Narrow in scrutiny? Would they hold hers as they always had, or would they accept the invitation to travel lower and begin to learn the rest of her? And what would he say? How would he sound? Was he smooth, sanguine tenor or deep, throaty baritone?

Another long inhale, another slow exhale.

_Excuse me, Doctor, you seem to be a new regular on staff and I’ve been wanting to introduce myself. My name is Emma… Excuse me, Doctor, you seem to be a new regular on staff and I’ve been wanting to introduce myself. My name is Emma…_

************

It had been a very good day.

The previous evening had found him prowling the secondhand shops and antique peddlers scattered throughout downtown, and he’d procured a surprisingly satisfying haul. The harmonica he’d found in Uncommon Objects had not, in fact, belonged to Willie Nelson as boasted, but Adam doubted the name Marion “Little Walter” Jacobs would mean anything to the gauge-eared gangly gent behind the counter. The depression era cordial glass he found at Treasure City would provide an elegant and more measured alternative to his flask, and the original vinyls he’d harvested from the bins at the Friends of Sound (James Jamerson, Rare Earth, and Badfinger) put him well on his way to rebuilding the collection he’d left behind. He’d parked in an alley off of Trinity Street for a moment of public privacy, rolling down the window to better hear the faint and fleeting sounds from the recital halls and rehearsal rooms of the Butler School of Music.  He floated on the aria of a sophomore soprano, winced at the sharps and flats that plagued the fourth chair violin, found himself tapping his foot to the beat of the spontaneously assembled members of the drumline. The air was heavy and humid and smelled of clay and cinder, grease and live oak; tiny flames that sparked a thousand memories to dance behind his eyelids.

He’d just turned the key in the ignition when the overhead door of a nearby loading dock rolled up, spilling golden light across the pavement in his rearview mirror. Two young men in burnt orange t-shirts appeared on the platform, pushing a canvas bin between them. Adam sat straight, pausing only a moment before opening his door and approaching with casual confidence. The students were only too willing to let him peruse the dated amps and cables and microphones and filters receiving an unceremonious heave-ho as they leaned against the building, sucking flavored vapor from long-stemmed inhalers and blowing their acridly sweet smoke rings to the sky. The Vestax was a delightful and highly unanticipated find, and he turned it reverently in his gloved hands.

“Oh, man, you don’t want that piece of shit,” the dark-skinned senior had a regal and handsome face below his tight ebony curls, and the pleasant aroma of the oil and slide grease he’d used to clean his horn still lingered on his hands. “She’s a bitch to keep in working order.”

“I’m familiar with the maintenance,” Adam reassured him coolly.

“You got a band you play with, bro?” The slender Asian asked, popping his callused fingers at the stranger’s silence and almost imperceptible headshake. “That’s cool, you know. You can check out the flyers in the quad, there’s always dudes looking for…”

“How much?” Adam interrupted, already pulling his wallet from his pocket.

He’d carried everything inside with an urgency he’d not felt in some time, stealing only a couple of hours of rest before spending the better part of the day tweaking the vinyl cutter to his satisfaction. Once he’d confirmed he could lay tracks to his satisfaction, he set about lining the walls with the soft foam and spongey eggcrate he’d collected over the previous weeks. Now, as he plugged the last of the audio cables into the amplifiers, he cracked a fleeting grin at the muted feedback whine that filled the air. Sinking down onto the Victorian, he reached for the Gretsch, balancing the base on his thighs and hugging the neck as he surveyed his handiwork.

He didn’t need a calendar to know that it was Thursday, didn’t need a clock to tell him he was minutes from midnight. He had risen and crossed to the scrubs that lay waiting at the foot of his bed before he realized it, and the soft but distinct pull he felt sent a sudden jolt up his spine. It was his routine, yes, his pattern, his route.

But there was something more this time.

It wasn’t hunger. He’d fed well for days after his initial exchange with the good Latin doctor, compensating for the time he’d scrounged and saved. But bringing such indulgence to heel hadn’t been difficult: he was well-practiced in the art of self-preservation, and it only took a week or so to wean back down to his former diet.

It wasn’t lack of supply. He still had one untapped cylinder in the fridge downstairs; he could stretch its sustenance another full month if necessary.

So… what was it?

He cocked his head to consider, as if listening for a whispered answer his sharp ears couldn’t quite hear. But there was nothing, save for the creaking of the house as it settled in the lingering late-night heat. He crossed to the window, pulling back the curtain a sliver to gaze down at the dusty landscape that always appeared blue in the moonlight. There was nothing to see except empty scrub and miles of road no one else ever seemed to drive. He drew in breath, held it, and found the answer in the faint and faded scent of orchid. It brought to mind grey-green eyes beneath a wispy curtain of dark brown hair, and the sound of a heartbeat that seemed to quicken and quiet at once at his approach.

He let the curtain fall back in place with a resolute sigh. He returned to the loft, to the Gretsch, leaving the scrubs where they lay. He turned out the lamp, turned up the amp, closed his eyes, and began to play.


	6. Chapter 6

The rattling buzz of her muted cellphone echoed through the room as it jittered on her nightstand for the fourth time in an hour. For the fourth time in an hour, Emma ignored it. The portly feline curled against her thigh blinked lazily before stretching his mouth in a wide, purring yawn, clearly pleased by his mistress’ choice to ignore the device in favor of scratching the velvety spot behind his macerated ear. He nudged his head into her touch, and she gave a weary sigh. “Love you too, buddy.”

She’d barely closed her eyes all day, and if she’d dreamt at all, she couldn’t remember a single detail. After sitting and squirming and starting and staring down the hall for the better part of an hour following her conversation with Amy, she’d flopped back into her chair with a quiet groan of resignation.

_If he hasn’t come by now, he’s not coming at all._

She didn’t know how she knew that to be true, she only knew that it was. A fleeting thought dusted briefly through her head – _maybe you got the day wrong_ – but she somehow knew she hadn’t. It was his night, it was his time, but for some reason she couldn’t even guess at, he wasn’t going to be there. As if she needed affirmation, the door to the hematology lab swung open a few minutes before two, and Dr. Gabriel’s head appeared, poking around the jamb to survey the empty hallway. Emma had already resumed her routine, and was signing her initials to the rounding log in a patient’s doorway, so he didn’t see her observing his worried curiosity. But she had, and for a moment, she saw herself striding down the hall, catching the man’s eye, and giving him an innocent, friendly shrug. “I know, Doc, what gives?”

Instead, she simply stood rooted to her spot until the doctor retreated into his office once more.

The remainder of her night had dragged like a lead weight, empty seconds stretching into quiet minutes, into agonizing hours of deafening silence. The early morning summer sun mocked her stormy expression the entire drive home, and she’d trudged into her apartment on legs that felt too heavy and numb. She’d bypassed the kitchen, moving sullenly through her bedroom and into her bathroom. Her efforts from the evening before were still clearly visible; much to her chagrin, the reflection that stared back at her looked even better than the one that had departed fifteen hours prior. Her eyeliner and mascara had smudged ever so slightly, giving her pale jade eyes a sleepy, smoky, come-hither appeal. Several strands of hair had broken loose from the coil she’d twisted them into, and hung about her neck in careless waves. And the absent-minded worrying of her teeth over her bottom lip had left it flushed and swollen.

“Damn,” she snorted in a wry, flat voice. “I looked good.”

She’d scrubbed her face and unlashed her hair, traded scrubs for a faded and formless sleepshirt, and crawled unceremoniously between the sheets. She was staring morosely into space when Nemesis appeared in the open doorway, the pointed glance over his shoulder at the quiet kitchen speaking volumes. “Sorry, fatass,” she mumbled, hauling the sheet up over her shoulder as she rolled onto her side. “You’re going to have to eat like a cat for once. Momma’s not hungry.”

She hadn’t left the bed since, even after four hours of unrestorative tossing and turning. She lay in the manufactured dark, watching the ceiling fan blades cut their way through the air, listening to the world moving along without her outside her window. Thinking.

_Who is he?_

Her brain conjured up the memory of the badge that hung from the lanyard around his neck, but other than vague shapes and shading, she could recall no detail, certainly not enough to make out a name.

_White badge. Contracted. Probably has privileges all over the city. So most likely an MD, not just some courier. Hat, mask, gloves… surgical? But he never visits patients, never checks charts. Donation coordination? Those guys usually travel in pairs. Infectious disease? They crawl all over the lab during the day; I guess maybe they’d occasionally send someone at night. But they’re all questions, questions, questions, wash-your-hands, stop-touching-your-face… that last battle axe cut Grethel’s tie off right at the knot._

A small smile ghosted over her lips at the memory, and she gave the tabby another scritch behind his ear.

_Why wasn’t he there? He was supposed to be; even if Dr. G hadn’t been looking for him, you know he was supposed to be there. Does he work on-call… could he have been pulled into something last minute? No. If that were the case, Dr. G wouldn’t have been looking for him, he would’ve just assumed something else was up. And if he were on-call, Dr. G would have his number… could just page him or call him to find out why he was MIA._

She frowned briefly as she considered.

_Dr. G didn’t call him. Which means…_

She shifted in bed, sitting up a little against her pillow.

_Dr. G_ couldn’t _call him._

A flock of goosebumps took flight across her skin, and Nemesis shot her an irritated scowl as she pulled the blankets a bit closer.

_What does this guy do? Comes around once a month… why? For what? Is it some sort of clinical trial, some new research study? Can’t be! Someone like that would have a lab of their own, someone to run their errands, collect their resources. What does it have to do with Dr. G? Why would Dr. G have a professional relationship with someone he can’t even contact?_

The room quieted as the air conditioner clicked off; the goosebumps that dotted her neck and arms lingered.

_Dr. Gabriel_ was _looking for him… but he didn’t ask about him. Dr. Gabriel_ never _asks about him. He never even_ talks _about him, hasn’t mentioned him once. Not a “have you met” or “say, have you seen” or a “there’s going to be a colleague of mine stopping by”. And Dr. G_ loves _to talk about work – the drives, the meds, the transfusions, the other doctors… Hell, it was just last year that he was on and on about some new clinic, and he could have lost his job if the hospital found out he was letting someone else woo him. But this guy? Not one word._

Emma’s heart paused a beat in her chest, and her eyes widened a bit as she spoke to the empty air. “He’s buying blood.”

_That’s ridiculous._

Even as she thought it, she knew that it wasn’t.

_Buying blood? Why? It can’t be for anything big – the coolers that go down to the surgical floor are twice the size of that lunchbox he carries, and that’s on a slow day. Besides, we’d be short all the time, and we’re almost never short. Plus, we’re an urban trauma center, for Christ’s sake! They audit our bank like it was Fort Knox! There’s no way this guy is smuggling out blood, unless it’s only three or four pints at a time. And what the hell can you really do with only three or four pints?_

She blew her air out through pursed lips, raked her fingers through her hair.

_No way it’s research. You’d need a hell of a lot more, plus a working lab and some kind of staff, even if it’s only for veracity. And anyway, people like that have a lot more formality in place. There’d have to be some whole chain-of-custody procedure to ensure there was no kind of contamination or tampering going on. He’d have to have a legitimate contract with a reputable supplier, and they would deliver. None of this clandestine, one in the morning handoff. But then what… why…?_

She wracked her brain, once again chewing on her bottom lip.

_Is he trying to help someone who’s sick? Somebody with some kind of anemia… leukemia?_

She frowned, unable to shake the feeling she was circling an answer, but coming no closer.

_Is… he sick? He certainly never looks it. A bit pale maybe, could use a little sun…_

The air conditioner chuffed back to life, and she squinted as the curtains danced apart ever so briefly on the draft to let the ruddy light of the setting sun spill into the room.

_Who is he?_

Sudden thunder of a fist against her front door broke her out of her reverie with a start that made the cat dash for the safety under the bed with a yowl. “Emma? Come on, Em, I know you’re in there… open up!” Amy’s voice, punctuated by another flurry of knocking. “I’m not going to go away, Emma, you might as well open the door…”

“Fuck,” Emma muttered under her breath, throwing aside the bedclothes and pushing herself to her feet. She padded out of her room with Nemesis on her heels; he leapt gracefully to the counter, tail flicking sharply to and fro as he watched with narrowed eyes. Switching on the overhead light and flattening her palms against the door, Emma leaned close to peer through the peephole. “Oh, shit,” she grumbled, already shaking her head before flipping the deadbolt and swinging the aluminum panel back on its hinges. “No, Amy. No, no, no, no, no…”

The petite blonde was dressed and coiffed to the nines – her bobbed hair sleek and shining and teased, her face painted to nightlife perfection. She strutted over the jamb with a cocky air, the short skirt of her sequined dress flipping and flirting well above her knees. “Oh, fucking YES,” she drawled, breezing past Emma with a wink.

“Jesus Christ,” Emma fanned her hand in front of her face. “I know you love ‘Glow’ but did you have to freaking bathe in it?”

“Mmm,” Amy cooed as Nemesis stepped to the edge of the counter to push his head into her extended hands. “Men love it, Em… see? Makes ‘em come a runnin’.”

Emma scowled at her traitor feline. “He’s just hoping you’ll feed him.” She gritted her teeth together for as few seconds as her friend fawned over the tabby, then cleared her throat purposefully. “So, before you get started on your pitch, let me save you the trouble: I am not going out tonight.”

Amy shot her a coy, flirty gaze over her shoulder. “Oh, yes, you are.”

“I am not,” Emma repeated firmly.

Abandoning all tactics, Amy whirled to face her fully, her long crystal beaded necklace winking in the light as it swung on her neck. “Yes, you are, Emmaline Rose!” Her blue eyes flashed with concerned if slightly childish anger. “I am tired of this bullshit. The moping and the moodiness… I’m over it! And you need to be over it, too! I thought our little talk last night would get you back on track, but you were even more unbearable after it was over than you were before I said anything at all! So here is exactly what’s going to happen.” She advanced on her friend insistently. “You are going to march your raggedy ass into that shower and you’re going to wash off this shit attitude. You’re going to fix your hair and your face and you’re going to put on some hot little number that brings out your T and A.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And then, we are going to meet Amber and Jonna and Lilly and Caty at Elysium.”

“No…” Emma began, but Amy’s waving hand and snapping fingers cut her off.

“Yes! We are going to drink. We are going to dance. We are going to spend too much money and sweat off our makeup, and with any luck, you’ll end the night with a hot guy’s hand up your skirt and his tongue down your throat.”

“Oh, well,” Emma scoffed, her face a moue of disgust, “when you put it that way…”

Amy softened a bit, reached out to take Emma’s shoulders in her hands. “Come on, Em. I’m not telling you to troll for Mr. Right, I’m not even telling you to hook up with a Mr. Right Now. But… Em… come on…” Her eyes wilted at the corners. “You’re so _not happy_ all the time, and you deserve to be happy. So come on. Come cut loose with us for one night.” Emma bit her lip in consideration, and Amy pressed just a little harder. “Just for tonight. If it doesn’t help, I swear I’ll shut up about it, I promise.”

Emma’s stiff, defensive posture slumped, and she eyed Amy warily from beneath the fringe of her bangs. “You swear?”

Amy traced her fingers in a broad X over her chest. “Cross my heart.”

Four hours later, Emma was all but certain she’d gotten the short end of the stick. The shower had been fleeting bliss, the hot water meting away some of the tension that lingered in her neck and shoulders. After that, all was a series of tiny battles. Amy bubbled that she should wear her hair up, Emma fired up her dryer and blew her long tresses out to wear them tumbling down her back. There was a short and sassy wrap dress lying on her bed when she emerged from the fragrant steam of the bathroom; she eyed it skeptically as she pulled on a pair of snug-fit jeans and her favorite t-shirt. And when they shuffled to the bar, along with the assembled gaggle of other off duty nurses, she opted for a Diet Coke with lemon instead of the shots of Cuervo chased with Shiners or Jester King. She managed to lose herself to the throbbing beat of a few of her favorite songs on the dance floor, whirling and twirling among her friends and the throngs of strangers. But as the evening wore on and the inevitable pairing off began, she made her way back to a stool in the corner to sip water and watch the clock tick its way towards last call.

It was just after midnight when Amy flounced over on a wave of breathless irritation. “Are you serious?”

Emma shot her a glare of her own. “Knock it off, Aim.”

“Don’t tell me to knock it off!” Amy snapped shortly. “You knock it off! This was supposed to be about you shaking off the bitchface for a while, not bringing it with you to trash everybody’s night.”

Emma pulled her credit card from her purse and waved it in the direction of the bartender. “I knew I should have just grabbed a cab.”

“You were gonna just flat out ditch us?” Amy gasped, incensed. “That is such a dick move, Emma.”

“Well, I didn’t do it, did I?” Emma barked as the server arrived to close her tab. “Jesus, Amy I can’t help it if I just don’t want to be out tonight…”

“Then you should have stayed in!”

“You wouldn’t have left!”

“Hey, guys, what’s up?”

The two friends ceased their squabbling as the rest of their entourage crowded around, and under their scrutiny, Amy’s angry façade crumbled to weary resignation. “Emma’s about to turn into a pumpkin, gang,” she sighed, rubbing a hand over Emma’s arm. “She had kind of a tough night last night… she was a really good sport to let me drag her out at all… I should probably take her home.”

Emma smiled, touched and a bit guilty. “No, Aim, you should stay. You were right to haul my ass out, and I did have a good time. I can just get a cab – you guys have fun…” A chorus of protestation rose above the bass heavy music, and two different set of hands seized her wrists in an attempt to pull her back onto the dance floor. “No, guys, really…”

“Come on, Em, you can shake it…”

“Yeah, just get movin’ again…”

“Don’t be such an old wet blanket…”

“No, you guys, seriously,” Emma shook her head, “I’m getting kinda tired….”

“Well, one more round, then…"

“Come on, I’ll buy…”

“No, really!” Emma waved a finger beside her ear. “It’s too loud in here…”

“Well, we’ll go somewhere else…”

“Yes!”

“Pub crawl!”

“You pick the place, girl, anywhere you want…”

She suggested Ego’s, thinking there was no way any one of her companions would set foot inside. But when they called her bluff, she was forced to let them to drag her over the South Congress Bridge and into the dark and dated dive bar. She shivered visibly as the door swung shut behind her, rubbing at the goosebumps on her arms as Jonna, one the tipsier members of her horde, hollered out lusty praise for the genius who thought to crank up the air conditioner. The only one in low-heeled sandals, Emma helped navigate her stumbling stilettoed companions to an abandoned table, pushing the used glasses and cocktail napkins to the center of the pocked and scratched wooden surface with a wrinkle of her nose.

“Yeah… sorry,” the harried young waitress offered her an apologetic smile as she hovered beside her. Emma shook her head, helping her move the dirty dishes and refuse onto her tray. “I’ll wipe y’all down, just lemme grab a towel…”

“And menus!” Amber leaned forward in her chair and screeched at her departing back as Emma lay a restraining hand on her arm.

“Amber, we’re in a bar, not a restaurant…”

After an animated and irritating argument regarding the appropriateness of calling for pizza delivery, Emma slumped back in her chair as the server returned, scrubbing away the sweat rings and splashes of spilled liquor. Pulling her pad from her back pocket and her pen from the nest of multi-colored dreadlocks piled atop her head, she clicked her tongue stud absently against her small, even teeth. “What can I get you ladies?” Emma winced reflexively at the cacophony that greeted the question, shouts of half a dozen different beers and liquors in garbled, giggly voices. After a few moments of skilled drunk-to-English interpretation, the young woman turned to her with a crooked grin. “I like your scarlet,” she slipped the tip of her ballpoint just under one of Emma’s streaks, pulling it free to shine more prominently atop of the rest of her hair.

“Thanks,” Emma flushed a little, nodding at the waitress’ own updo. “I like yours. It’s… inspired.”

The girl rolled her eyes a bit. “It’s indecision, but thanks to you, too.” She gave the rest of the table a sidelong glance before leaning a bit closer. “You the designated driver here?”

Emma snorted briefly. “Uh… no.” She only paused a heartbeat before continuing. “A glass of the house red, please.”

The waitress pursed her lips and, nodding knowingly, turned on her heel to disappear into the crowd that stood between her and the bar. Emma watched her go, then propped her elbows on the table, pushing her hair back from her face with her hands. The karaoke set-up had been collected and cleared away, and a grungy, broken-down band had assembled on the narrow rectangle the obviously ballsy proprietors deigned to call a stage. The drummer tapped the rim of his snare, the singer behind the microphone counted along, and the air filled with heavy bass and bluesy electric guitar.

“Oh, my God,” Lilly folded her arms on the table and dropped her forehead down on them. “I cannot believe our nurse’s night out has ended up here…”

Emma sniffed unapologetically. “They’re not half bad…”

Ten minutes and two static-laced yet soulful songs later, the waitress materialized once more, her broad, heavy load resting on her shoulder. She passed out the salted glasses of frozen margaritas, the pint glass of Captain and Coke, the highball glasses filled with concoctions mixed with a sweetness to disguise the punch they packed. Finally, after waiting for the others to fall into their preoccupied chatter, she set a delicate crystal goblet on the cocktail napkin in front of Emma with a small but telling smirk. “And I know you requested the house red, but…” She ran her hands excitedly along the edges of her tray. “Alain Graillot Syrocco. The best we have to offer.”

Emma quirked a curious eyebrow, drawing the wine closer. She swirled the deep blood red vintage gently in its bowl, watching the fingers trickle elegantly down the glass, closing her eyes as she breathed in its spicy-sweet aroma. “This…” she smiled in confusion, “this is exquisite, but why…?”

The young woman dropped her a saucy wink. “You’ll have to ask the gentleman at the end of the bar.” She turned with flounce and sauntered away and as Emma’s gaze returned to her glass, it seemed she took all the air from the room with her.

_It’s him. You know it. You can feel him._

_He’s here._

The tremor started in the balls of her feet; it only took a moment to permeate every muscle in her body. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, Emma pushed her chair back just a scrape. Gripping the backrest with strength that drained all color from her knuckles, she rose, and as the other details of the room swam cooperatively out of focus, she whispered to herself a soft reminder. “Breathe. Just breathe.” Squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin, she turned.

The chair at the end of the bar was empty.


	7. Chapter 7

_What the fuck was the point of that?_

Adam sank slowly into the weary embrace of the sofa, laying his head back over the headrest and closing his eyes.

He’d learned very quickly that Friday nights in Austin, Texas could be an incredibly centering balm to his spirit, if he’d exercise the barest amount of patience and perseverance. A simple four or five mile walk along the parallels and perpendiculars of the downtown grid provided a cornucopia of sights, smells, and sounds, many of them more pleasing than he’d initially expected. From the bluesy-country twang at the Continental Club, to the slow and soulful jazz of the Elephant Room, to the hard-rocking edge at Emo’s to the softer art-and-folksy vibe at Parish; whatever his mood, he could find the music to suit it. He’d pay his cover charges, accept the inky brands of the non-drinker when he refused to show ID, then simply let the crowd absorb him, moving through the bodies of these living buildings as a silent and sedate observer.

Some nights he sought out the hazy and hypnotic, clubs filled with low, tinny strains of his beloved funeral music that danced sensually in the misty, vape-sweetened air. Some nights he craved the edge of the darker dungeons of hard rock and heavy metal, appreciating the oft unrecognized poetry of the leather and ink covered artists from the far shore of the sea of sweating, swaying bodies that raised their hands and banged their heads. And once or twice, he’d taken a seat at the back of a crowd of cowboys and their little fillies, watching from behind his sunglasses as they shuffled and scooted their way around dusty dance floors.

Tonight, though. Tonight he’d just wanted something a little bit quieter, a little removed from the Greeks and their goddesses, a little distanced from the tourists and the trollers and the thrill-seekers on the prowl. The bar was outside the downtown cluster, and had more than a few unfavorable reviews. But it was just crowded enough for him to slip inside and blend into the furniture, perching on a back stool to watch with aloof interest as the musical act for the evening unloaded its gear. He was encouraged by the sight of the Ludwig kit, disappointed by the low-quality appearance of the Jameson guitars. But once the four man crew took their places for a sound check, Adam was forced to concede, if only to himself, that he’d heard worse.

It wasn’t difficult to duck the attention of the bartender; even if his very long life hadn’t been a supernatural one, it wasn’t rocket science understanding that some human blind spots were bigger than others. He had just taken a tug from his flask and was enjoying the way the infusion heightened his senses when he caught it: a scent, feathery and floral, warm and welcoming. Flirty… and a bit too familiar.

He was already sitting straighter in his chair when the door swung open and she was carried inside on a tidal wave of over-sprayed hair and overworked antiperspirant. Her own dark and decorated locks were tumbled messily about her neck and shoulders, hiding the faint sheen of summer night humidity that clung to her neck beneath the heavy curtain. Her eyes were the green of a storm-tossed sea, and her expression was pinched to match. He caught himself grinning at the black t-shirt stretched across her torso, the graphic that of an EKG strip with blips the shape of sixteenth notes. She shivered against the artificial chill in the air, and he swallowed a bit harder than usual as the friction of her palms over her arms called her blood closer to the surface of her pretty, pale skin.

He watched unobserved as her entourage shuffled a bit ungainly to an unbussed table not far from the bar, the others collapsing into chairs in gales of tequila-soaked giggles. She sank into her spot with a bit more grace, grinning gently as she helped the overworked waitress clear the remains of the previous party’s revelries from the table. He quirked a brow in curiosity as she raked her hands through her thick, tousled tresses before plopping her chin on the heel of her hand. Clearly uncomfortable, it only took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t the aged bar or the dim lighting or even the sullen, static-popped sound of the band playing on stage making her slump in her seat.

It was the company.

He sat back a bit on his stool, looking and listening with a fair amount of fascination as the scene unfolded before him. Silly, simpering women, tipsy and troubled, bemoaning the turn their girl’s night out had taken; slurred snickers and catty conversation, a sea of snippy little eels splashing around a peaceful ivory island. Even the curvaceous blonde beside her gave her a pressuring nudge: “Come on, Em, lighten up please? We gave you your choice of places to go, and you chose here. Now there’s no food, no dance floor, and I’d only barely call the noise those stoners are making music. So… come on. Can you please just try to loosen up a little?”

He watched her expression soften, her cheeks flushing with guilt, and felt a momentary twist of disgust. He’d held her in better regard, this one, what little regard their limited contact had prescribed. This woman who noticed much but spoke little, who accepted silence and gave it in return, meeting his indifference with vigilant respect as opposed to selfish, self-indulgent curiosity.   That she would spend her time with such tripe…

His train of thought was interrupted by the waitress returning to the table and briefly blocking his line of sight. Shifting her weight from foot to foot as each woman barked her drink order, scribbling patiently through cocktail after cocktail as this one changed her mind, then the other, then the other again. Finally, it was _her_ turn, and after a brief exchange, she offered the server a chagrined smile. “A glass of the house red, please.”

His hand was on his wallet before the waitress was even back to the bar, the Jag was purring its way down South Congress before the wine had even touched her lips.

_So… what the fuck was the point of all of that?_

He’d found the Les Paul on the curb at the corner of Enfield and West Lynn, in a bin marked “free to good home”. It had taken a week to repair the crack in the neck; he plugged it into the live amp and struck a sharp G.

He’d been around long enough to know – sooner or later, he’d need some manner of contact. Some palatable zombie with intelligence and ingenuity, who could listen more than he or she spoke, who could think on their feet while following instructions, who wouldn’t ask questions, or answer them, should the wrong people start asking. A link, a connection, an ambassador to the ways of the world he’d chosen to be a part of, however small.

_That’s not why you’re interested in her…_

He struck the chord again, added a little bit of pressure to the fret to warp the sound just so. “I’m not interested in her at all…”

_Really? Well, then… what the fuck was the point of all of that?_

With a muted snarl, Adam flipped the switch on the soundboard, filling the air with the loop of background bass he laid down the week before. He lost himself briefly in the rocking rhythm he’d been cultivating in his head, ignoring the fact that it soon took on the cadence of the words she’d spoken, and that the color swirling behind his closed lids was a silent but stormy grey-toned green.

Lightning was flashing on the horizon when he woke on Tuesday evening, stiff and achy and out of sorts. The Vestax had seized in the middle of a recording, and he’d spent the better part of the previous night bent over the intricate wiring of her mechanical heart. He’d eventually brought her back online, but not in time to beat the sun, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, flicking his fingers through the scruff on his chin and scowling at the jumbled mess of notes and chords jangling between his ears. He thought of the half empty bottle in the fridge at the bottom of the stairs, and the scrubs that still lay waiting at the foot of his bed, and pushed himself to his feet.

From the moment he parked the Jaguar in the dusty lot beneath the interstate, he knew she wasn’t there. The air, usually so charged that he could feel it dancing over his skin, even beneath the sleeves of the lab coat, was flat and dull. The vibrating hum that he’d told himself was the voice of the inner workings of the elevator was silent; all he heard tonight was the metallic mutter of the chains drawing him higher into the heart of the building, the reedy ding of the bell that announced he’d arrived at his destination. Her scent lingered in the hallway, so faint he had to seek it out beneath all the other layers of sanitizer and sweat.

_She certainly leaves an impression._

Lost in thought, he should have collided headlong with the dark, petite nurse approaching with her head bent over a set of lab reports. But, of course, she shifted her step at the last minute, swerving a detour around him that she wouldn’t even be aware she’d taken.

The nurse’s station was quiet and still, every chair empty. Adam exhaled through his nose as he pressed the button that would ring the doctor in the back office of the hematology lab; Vicente’s expression when he looked up from the papers on his desk was a mixture of confusion and relief. “I was wondering…”

Adam tilted his head back, staring at the man down the line of his mask-covered nose. “I’m certain, Doctor. It seems… a slight schedule change is in order…”

************

“Oh, thank _God_ , it’s finally clearing out there,” the stately blonde sniffed, sitting impossibly straight in her chair and brushing her linen napkin delicately over the shoulder of her Versace suit jacket. “If you only knew what dry cleaners charge these days to get water spots out of silk… it’s unheard of…”

Emma smiled at her mother through closed lips, clamping down on the thought that rattled through her brain – _what’s really unheard of is you being expected to cover that ensemble with a raincoat, eh?_ – tethering it before it could tumble out of her mouth and spoil what had actually been a rather decent evening.

Vivian Powell-Minette had always been a vibrant- if take-no-prisoners - force to be reckoned with, even when she was just Viv Minette of Sulphur Springs, wife of Lucas, mother of Ethan and Emmaline. She’d tried on East Texas life as a young girl and found it ill-fitting; four years studying music at TCU wasn’t exactly her couture, either. Still, never one to abandon anything half-done, she’d left the school with a sheepskin in one hand and Luke’s ring on the other. Fourteen years in a cute little house in Georgetown, packing him lunches to carry to work in the anthropology department of Southwestern, organizing bake sales and Blue Santa, she matriarched her family the way one might captain a ship or command a platoon. Ethan never left the house with an unruly cowlick or alfalfa sprout, Emma never wore white shoes after Labor Day. She woke them all with eggs and muffins in the morning, was there with a sensible snack in the afternoon, read the perfect age-appropriate bedtime stories to her moppets tucked into their beds with homework done, bellies full, and teeth brushed.

She outgrew Lucas first… “ _Honestly, Cecille, the man won’t even chase tenure!”_ Ethan was twelve and Emma was ten when their father packed his Cherokee and kissed them goodbye, driving away and taking all that Viv had been with him. In her place, Vivian sprouted, and began to blossom. She completed her MBA at night, somehow finding time to study between Ethan’s baseball games and Emma’s choir concerts and her own job as a receptionist in a local real estate office. She never missed a meal, or a parent-teacher conference; she refused alimony, sent back the child support checks when every penny wasn’t absolutely needed. Some people might have been surprised when the “For Sale” sign appeared on the lawn the day after Emma’s scholarship information from the University of Texas arrived in the mail.

Emma wasn’t one of them.

Now, sitting across from the woman at a small table in the Roaring Fork, she thought (as she so often did when thinking about her mother) of the watercolors and oils that hung on the walls of the Blanton just blocks away. Beautiful, brilliant, wordlessly whispering messages and lessons to be pondered and appreciated, even as they hovered untouchable just beyond her fingertips. A plain canvas of a girl woven from the dusty thread of a one stoplight town who painted upon herself a pattern strong enough, wise enough, dazzling enough to catch the eye of just the right collector at just the right time – be it admission officer, temporary husband, or the head of HR at the Chicago corporate office of Discover Finance.

“Mom hates us,” Ethan had grumbled one Thanksgiving, tugging at the necktie Vivian had cinched in place herself before whisking her college graduates into the ballroom reserved for the company holiday.

“She loves us,” Emma replied sincerely, watching the statuesque woman as she moved among her colleagues like a cool, calming mist, chatting briefly with this woman, laughing endearingly at that gentleman’s joke. “She’s just not Mom right now.”

Vivian texted every January fifteenth to remind Emma to review the details of the small but steadily growing trust she’d set up for her the same day she’d donned her cap and gown with the rest of her class at the UT School of Nursing, every April first to remind her to file her taxes, every June tenth to remind her to get a birthday card for Ethan in the mail. Mom never forgot to send a gift on her birthday - breezy sundresses always the right size and shades of purple, pink, or blue, delicate hand-crafted earrings of sterling silver, a gorgeous tinkling wind chime of treble clefs, quarter notes, and connected eighth notes. Vivian never forgot to ask on her monthly phone call if Emma was keeping up the scheduled maintenance on her car, maintaining her supplemental malpractice insurance, carrying her pepper spray. Mom never forgot Nurse’s Week – the ivory embossed envelope carrying the gift certificates to Taverna and Massage Envy arrived without fail the Friday afternoon prior.

And at least three times a year, a phone call like the one this afternoon: “You’re not working tonight, are you, Meadowlark? Yes, well, I’m in town for one more day, meeting with the analysts for Southwest Airlines – aren’t they just the sharpest? – and I thought dinner might be nice…”

Vivian was already seated at their table when Emma arrived, shaking the late summer shower from the strands of hair that had escaped her messy bun, straightening her earrings and smoothing her hands over her blouse. She rose at her daughter’s approach, pulling the young woman in for a hug and a brisk kiss to her cheek. “I always like the red,” she sniffed approvingly, twirling the colored strand around her finger briefly before tucking it behind Emma’s ear.

“I know,” Emma grinned, sitting down and taking a sip from the ice water already waiting for her.

The frame of the conversation was always the same, many of the details similar. Vivian recounted her travel experience while they browsed the menu (“Since when do they allow unaccompanied minors in first class?”), updated Emma on her living arrangements (“The floorplan is exceptional, but whoever decorates these corporate apartments should be shot in the eye. Thank God I can afford storage – the furniture simply had to go, every stick.”), then indulged in the obligatory family conversation (“So your brother is still seeing that massage girl who works for the Atlanta Braves…”). The massage girl was actually a smart and savvy sports medicine MD, but Emma figured that was Ethan’s battle to fight, and simply nodded over her salad.

She managed to stay in the dialogue until the waitress arrived with their steaks, and the glass of merlot that her mother requested to accompany hers. But in that moment, staring at the crimson liquid, she found herself drawn back to the previous Friday night… the dim and dingy pub… the irresistible bouquet of the wine… the empty stool at the end of the bar.

_It was him. You_ know _it was him. Why did he send it? Why didn’t he stay?_

She lowered her eyes to her plate as her mother prattled on about the new CPA that had hired on the previous month, a Harvard graduate with a good head on her shoulders, even if she did insist on wearing ridiculous six inch heels to the office every day. She watched the fragrant pink juice of her sirloin pool beneath the pressure of her knife and fork.

_Who is he? What is he hiding?_

She shrugged her shoulders absently when Vivian asked if she recalled hearing the story of the office manager who’d nearly lost his leg in a car accident the previous year. “Couldn’t get a single attorney to represent him then, but now that the story broke about that Bekins driver operating his rig while out of his head on crystal meth, he’s beating them off with a stick. I can’t tell you, Emmaline, how happy I am neither you nor your brother ever considered law school. Leeches, the lot of them…”

The word sent a brief but powerful jolt up Emma’s spine, her fork slipping from her hand and clattering to the floor. “Oh, God, Mom, I’m sorry…” Vivian waved her knife in a gesture of unconcerned dismissal, pointedly staring down the waiter who happened to catch her eye. He bustled quickly out of sight as Emma wiped her napkin over her mouth. “You know, I’m sure not all lawyers are leeches.”

Vivian sipped her wine with a derisive sniff. “You listen to me, Meadowlark,” the hand that held her glass shifted, her waggling finger sending ripples across the surface of the blood red liquid. “Every last one of them would drain you dry, every single drop.”

The words and the visual they conjured held Emma rapt for a long moment, until the waiter arrived at her side, placing a clean fork next to her plate. “Here you are, miss,” he smiled down at her. “May I bring you lovely ladies anything else?”

Vivian’s tone was polite but cool. “Yes, please, since you’re here,” she pushed the cardstock from the middle of the table towards her daughter, “we’ll go ahead and order our dessert.”

“Oh!” Emma sat a bit straighter in her chair, taking the small menu and giving it a once over. “Wow, what do you think, Mom? The huckleberry cheesecake or the crème brulee?”

“We’ll each have the crème brulee,” Vivian smiled thinly at the server. “And you can wrap up the cheesecake for her to take home, thank you.” She looked pointedly at the young woman as the waiter nodded and made his departure. “You’ve lost weight again.”

_Here we go._ “You know, Mom, most women are happy when they lose a pound or two.”

“Most women,” Vivian cocked a stern eyebrow, “lose it through sensible diet and exercise. Not through an ill-advised professional lifestyle.”

“Mom,” Emma sighed patiently, “I like my job.”

“And you should, Meadowlark. Nursing is one of the finest callings a girl can answer. But honestly, Emmaline, do you ever give any thought to the months, the years you’re shaving off your life by schlepping your way around that breathing graveyard night after night?”  

“Well, Mom,” Emma squared her shoulders, refusing to pick nervously at her food. “Somebody has to do it.”

“Yes, dear, I realize that,” Vivian’s dour expression softened at the edges, but her narrow eyes and the lingering tight moue of her mouth told Emma she wasn’t entirely off the hook. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be you. Now we both know that you are more than capable of specializing…”

“Mom,” Emma groaned quietly, “I like working med-surg…”

“Really? You like being nose-to-the-grindstone all night long in the bowels of the hospital?”

Emma couldn’t bite back her giggle. “We’re on the fifth floor, Mom, that’s hardly the bowels of the hospital…”

“Don’t crack wise, young lady,” Vivian sniffed, “you know what I mean. You work in a department that turns little to no profit for the organization…”

“We’re there to take care of sick people, Mom, not make money…”

“Every company’s goal is to make money, sweetheart, why do you think this country is in such an uproar over healthcare?” Vivian sipped her wine

“Mom, I really can’t have this conversation with you tonight…”

“I mean, I could understand if you were also working on your Master’s degree…” Vivian wheedled.

“I worked my ass off to get out of school, Mom, I really don’t want to go back.”

“I’m not saying it would be easy…”

“No, Mom.”

“You’d have to go to the day shift…”

“I like working nights!” Emma insisted indignantly.

Vivian’s tone dropped an octave. “Leading a normal life like the rest of the world, you never know. You might meet someone…”

“MOTHER!” Emma dropped her silverware to her plate with a clatter.

A moment of silence hung between the two, until Vivian reached across the table to take her daughter’s hand. “That was uncalled for,” she conceded sincerely. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed Emma’s fingers briefly. “I should tell you… you’ve always handled yourself exceptionally well in that department. Never playing the simpering wallflower, waiting for some man to come along and pick you up, validate you, define you. You are your own woman, strong and beautiful, and you make me so proud.”

Emma flushed in spite of herself, tucking her hair shyly behind her ear.

“Still, you have to admit, the men you’re going to meet prowling hospital halls in the middle of the night are probably not the sort you should consider wasting time on…”

Twenty minutes later, the two stood in the doorway of the restaurant for a brief goodbye as Vivian waited for her car. “You’ve got your CEU’s completed for the year, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emma grinned, tucking the box with her cheesecake into her purse.

“Still thinking of heading to the beach at the end of the summer?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Emma shrugged as her mother gave her fiery streak another affectionate twist.

“Well, wear your SPF if you do,” Vivian sighed. “We all have to turn forty but we don’t have to look it.”

“Yes, Mommy,” Emma smarmed, wrapping her arms around her mother as the Lincoln Town Car arrived at the curb. “Have a good day tomorrow, and a safe trip home.”

“I will, Meadowlark,” Vivian kissed her cheek before untangling herself from Emma’s embrace. “And I know you don’t want to, Emmaline, but please give some thought to what I said. It would be a real shame for someone like you to stay in the exact same spot forever.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Emma somehow managed to suppress her eyeroll until her mother’s back was turned as she climbed into the vehicle. “I’m good.”

“Don’t just be good, Emmaline,” Vivian admonished, gentle but serious. “Be exceptional.” With that, she blew a kiss, and pulled her door shut.

“Bye, Mom,” Emma waved with a resigned shake of her head before moving on down the sidewalk towards the parking lot. The radio burst immediately to life when she turned her key in the ignition; she reached over and switched it off. Easing the car into traffic, she tapped her fingertip against the steering wheel, turning the evening’s discussions over and over in her head, as she always did. The line of cars waiting at the light for access to I-35 was impressive for a weeknight, and Emma lay her head back against the headrest, staring into the red of the brakelights in front of her. An abrupt shiver raced up her spine, and she automatically leaned over to twist the knob on the AC to a lower setting.

Traffic moved sluggishly, a car length, two. She spared a glance at the building to her right, watching the ambulance idling in the drive, the scrub-clad men and women easing the gurney from the rig and pushing it briskly inside. She sniffed a small chuckle to herself. “Not it…” Her gaze shifted to a figure emerging from the side door at the back of the hospital, and her heart stopped briefly in her chest.

She knew him at a glance. She knew the dark curls caught beneath the scrub cap, the long limbs beneath the lab coat, the measured, resolute gait. She knew the gloved hands. She knew, if he turned, his face would still be obscured by a surgical mask. The entire world seemed to stop as she watched him striding smoothly down the walk, the evening breeze billowing the hem of his coat around his legs.

_What the hell?_

Cars were moving once more, and she bit her lip, gripping the wheel like iron as she edged hers forward. He paused at the corner, waiting for the signal to cross. From the opposite side of the street, a raucous group of seven or eight fraternity boys waited as well. Animated, almost certainly intoxicated, and Emma’s eyes widened.

_No way they let him cross without giving him shit. The mask… the cooler…_

The stoplight blazed red, and he stepped off the curb. The herd of collegiates did as well, and Emma held her breath.

His stride never slowed, his path never wavered. He drifted between their burly bodies like smoke on the wind. And not a single head turned at the sight.

_What the actual fuck?_

A horn from behind her made her jump, the air caged in her chest leaving her in an audible _whoosh._ She proceeded through the light, but instead of continuing along her path to catch the freeway north, she pulled into the lot to her left, waiting, watching.

_It’s like they didn’t even see him… How…?_

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then another, her head spinning.

_It’s like no one_ ever _sees him. No one ever talks about him, no one ever even_ mentions _him._

She knew the dated sports car was his, even before he arrived, pulling the door open and placing the cooler he carried on the passenger seat before slipping easily inside.

_You are NOT following this guy._

The engine of the Jag purred to life, the lights flicked on, cutting the darkness beneath the overpass.

_What if he sees you? What if he’s dangerous?_

The Jaguar crawled gracefully onto the access road. A moment later, Emma followed.

 

Behind the wheel of his own car, Adam briefly grit his teeth. Nothing was amiss, all had proceeded as smoothly as it ever had. Dr. Gabriel did not balk at all at the change in routine; in truth, he seemed reassured by it, as if he found security in adding a little variety to their clandestine exchange. The hospital corridors were empty when he departed, as was the elevator. He stepped out into the late summer evening, and the memory of orchid and almond filled his senses once more, as if conjured from thin air.

_It might have been nice to see her again_

He didn’t even bother to shake his head, he simply shifted his focus to the scents of exhaust and spilled beer, sweat and tar and stale cigarette smoke. He barely minded the celebrating soccer players, they didn’t mind him at all. He could feel eyes upon him as he joined the sparse traffic headed south, but he paid little attention; by the time he’d roared off the interstate and turned down the last paved road that led to his house, there weren’t even headlights in the rearview mirror any more.

She should have turned the car around and headed home the moment the Jaguar switched lanes and sped away. Without the tail lights in sight, she should have had no way of knowing where he was, where he was headed. And yet, when her own car approached the frontage road exit, she somehow knew it was the right one to take. Just as she somehow knew to turn left over the highway, and to bypass the two well-lit streets before turning right onto the dark, barely finished road canopied by trees and carpeted with dried underbrush. She knew to turn left, then right, then right again.  Pulled.  Called.

The Jaguar was nowhere to be seen. The house was dark. And yet, she knew. The shiver that raced up her spine and down again, the hair at the nape of her neck that stood at perfect attention. The singing of her own blood as it raced through her veins. A light appeared suddenly, outlining heavy curtains drawn over the bay window of the second floor, and she jumped in her seat. Swallowing hard, she opened her door, praying her legs would bear her weight.

He’d just finished changing out of his scrubs and was picking up the mandolin when he felt it, an electric pull so strong it made his eyes widen, his jaw clench. “No…”

He crossed to the window, pulled the curtain back an inch. “Fuck…”

Her knees were shaking as she put one foot on one bowed porch step, then another. The sun-bleached wood groaned lowly beneath her weight, at once a sound of welcome and warning.

Emma walked the final steps, closed her hand into a fist, and knocked.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an ending... rather, a whole new beginning...  
> Check the tags, folks, and consider yourself warned.

The balmy breeze of the steadily darkening night teased through the tendrils of hair that hung from the bun she’d cinched atop her head. Her cheeks flushed hot as she considered how long she’d been standing on the rickety front porch of this dilapidated old manor, waiting, ignored.   Every instinct she possessed seemed to be at war within her: half urging her to return to her car and speed away through the dark, the other half reminding her about the icy heat in those piercing blue eyes, the power and grace in those long, lithe limbs, the absolute gut-wrenching need to see what was always hidden from her beneath those particulate paper masks...

Taking a deep breath, swallowing hard, she leaned close to the rain-swollen wood of the heavy door, whispering into the grain as she would the ear of a lover.

"I know you're there. Please… I need to see you… to talk to you. Please.”

The silence that followed was broad and bone-crushing, until the heavy oak panel flew open, the aged rusty hinges squealing in protest.

And there he was.

She'd fantasized about him for weeks, spent more than a few dreams tangled in his embrace. But what stood before her was so much more than her brain could conjure it left her breathless.

His hair was a corona of long, dark curls that caressed their way down his neck, pushed back from his high, proud forehead. The scruff that dusted his lips and chin was similarly hued, the short, silky strands catching the glow of the single overhead bulb. His black button-down Oxford hung fully open, revealing a perfectly toned chest and abdomen above the low slung waistline of his snug-fitting jeans. His feet were bare, and just as long and graceful as the hands that now clutched the edge of the door and the molding of the doorjamb as he leaned into the night on his porch to scowl at her.

The glacial blue eyes that had always held her fast were flashing with dangerous fire; his brow was tightly knit and she could see the tension ticking in the locked muscles at the corner of his sculpted jaw. He was beautiful and terrible, and she found herself choking back a whimper as the ground tilted crazily beneath her feet.

Silence. So much silence as the two stared one another down. She bore his angry scrutiny as long as she was able before dropping her gaze to memorize the dark knot that twisted through the wood between his feet. An agonizing moment, two, and then the door was swinging closed once more. Her head jerked up. “No, wait… hold on a second…” Her hand flew out instinctively to stop him, and her fingers brushed lightly over his. “Jesus,” she gasped, “you’re so cold…”

The word echoed through her head, a final puzzle piece clicking, almost audibly, into place. She held her breath as he watched the realization burst cross her features like some sudden and unexpected wave, frigid and heavy, crashing over her and dragging her down into a bottomless undertow.

And then eternity seemed to spin out in front of her as he stepped aside, out of the doorframe. His eyes were hooded and dark, his expression unreadable. She stood stock still, tense and confused – it was abundantly clear he was not inviting her in; every tightly drawn line of his body told her he was not at all pleased by her presence. And yet, he held the door open, the entrance to his home clear and unobstructed.

He'd never spoken a word to her, not in all the months he'd been gliding like a shadow through her life. But she knew the voice she heard in her head, deep and rich and full of warning, was his.

_"This choice is yours. Yours alone. Choose carefully, girl. You don't know all you think you do."_

Her legs were still shaking as she forced them to move, one in front of the other. The heels of her boots sent stuttering echoes dancing up into the musty rafters as she stepped into the house, wondering at the fact that she’d managed to keep her numb and suddenly stupid feet beneath her at all. She could hear his sharp, deep inhale as she moved timidly past him, and her eyes slid closed at the naked longing in the sound.

They snapped open once more at the resounding boom of the door slamming shut behind her, goosebumps flocking over her skin. She waited, trembling, for him to grab her, to drag her to him. She tried to imagine the velvet of his wicked, hungry chuckle in her ear, the pull of his hand in her hair, his mouth... But when he moved, it was only to brush past her, and she watched in dumbstruck disbelief as he rounded the bannister to her left and slowly but efficiently ascended the stairs, leaving her alone in the entryway.

_But… I thought…_

She hovered there, scraping her toe along the scuffed wooden floor for agonizingly long moments, feeling lost and alien and alone. Nothing had gone as she'd anticipated, and with all expectation stripped away, she felt naked, defenseless. The moldy yet still majestic grandfather clock in the corner sounded its throaty gong, a single, solitary note that mockingly reminded her exactly how late it was, and exactly how long she'd been waiting.

Waiting for nothing, apparently.

She turned slowly, reluctantly, swallowing the salt in her throat and stumbling toward the thick brass knob that would open the door. Her hand closed around its curving belly, but before she could twist it even an inch, she heard it.

Drifting from the living space above, like motes of dust floating on the air, the sweet somber song of an acoustic guitar.

It was loneliness and longing poured into sound. Gentle strumming punctuated here and there with soft, staccato plucking. Familiar and foreign all at once, the tune wrapped itself around her brain, sent fingers of curious need tickling down into her belly.

And all at once, like sailor to siren, she was moving, heeding the call.

The carved bannister was smooth beneath her palm as she climbed, and the air that dusted against her cheeks was subtly warmer than it had been below. The light that shone down the staircase was mellow, muted, not at all the sickly silver that lit the alcove where he'd greeted her, and allowed her entrance. And as she stepped into the open loft space at the top of the stairs, her breath caught in her throat.

The smell that filled her nostrils was intoxicating. Leather and paper, the covers and pages of old, worn and well-loved books. Linen and velvet, the heavy curtains drawn against the world beyond his walls. Alder and ash and mahogany and maple, the multitude of stringed instruments leaning against the furniture and lounging across the floor.

And something else, something elusive yet undeniable. Sandalwood, rosin, wool, and vinyl, earthy and elemental.

That scent, she realized, her heart thumping queerly in her chest, was _him_.

He was perched on the corner of a chenille sofa, the royal red fabric popped and worn thin along the curves and angles. He was bent over a beautiful hand-carved guitar of chocolate brown, his elegant fingertips teasing gracefully over the strings. His head was cocked, as if listening to a voice only he could hear, and his eyes were closed.

Her purse slid forgotten from her shoulder, hitting the dark shag carpet with a gentle thump. She moved towards him, slow but steady, drawn as easily into his orbit as proverbial moth to flame. She sank to her knees at his feet, aching to touch him, knowing she didn't dare. The two of them hung suspended that way as his fingers continued their dance over the catgut, drifting on the music as it flowed and ebbed, until the tune was played out and his hands hung above the instrument in still reverence. Then his eyes opened slowly, and he jerked ever so slightly, as if surprised to see her so close. Her cheeks flushed a wordless apology, her gaze dropping quickly to the floor.

Adam bared his teeth in a soundless snarl, his left hand curling around the neck of the guitar in a murderous grip. He leaned close, looming over her, every bit the specter fairytales and legends painted his kind to be. "What the bloody fuck are you doing here?" He could see she was shaking, her hands fisted on her knees as she battled the emotions that swirled within her. He could smell her - fear and fascination, determination and desire - and he swallowed hard before growling at her once more.   "Answer me."

She drew in a shuddering breath in a futile attempt to steady herself. "You know why I'm here." Her voice was little more than breath shaped into words. "I've seen you... you've seen me..." She flicked her eyes to his briefly, desperate to muster some measure of courage. "You _watch_ me..." Adam shifted angrily in his seat, thrusting the guitar to the cushion beside him. She cowered into herself but refused to retreat. Finally, unable to think of anything else, she blurted out the only words that came to mind, not even realizing their truth until they hung in the air between them.

"I know what you are. I know what you need."

Several heartbeats of terrible silence, and then her gasp split the air as his hands seized her shoulders.

"You think you know what I am?" He rose like a shot, hauling her to her feet in front of him and leaning close into her terrified gaze. "What are _you_ then, foolish girl, that you would come here, alone, uninvited, in the middle of the night? Do you think this a game, a bit of precious theater scripted from some trite, ridiculous fantasy?” He shoved her away from him, and she had to scramble a bit to keep from falling into an ungainly heap in the middle of the floor.

"You know what I am... you know what I need..." He bore down on her, backing her easily against the wall, hunger and rage rolling off him in waves. "You know _NOTHING_. If you did, pretty thing, you'd have turned your gaze away from mine and stayed far, _FAR_ away." He took a step back, then another, sweeping his arm towards the staircase. "Take my advice... take this chance that I offer because there won't be another." His eyes blazed dangerously.

"Get out."

She stood rooted to her spot, unable to meet his eye, equally unable to follow the line of his arm now pointing to the only way out of the house. Her stomach hitched and roiled, and the voice of the very sensible young lady her mother had raised prattled shrilly at the back of her brain. She knew he was right. She knew she had barely any idea what might happen if she didn't follow his command. But she also knew, as well as she knew her name, what would happen if she did.

He would disappear.

Never again would her hair stand to attention on the back of her neck to herald his presence down the long sterile hall of the hospital. Never again would he hold her under his spell as he drifted in and out of her evenings, watching and waiting while never making a sound. And even if she came to this house again, and even if he was cloistered inside, the door would remain closed and bolted, the curtains drawn, the air within and without as still and silent as a grave.

She pressed her palms to her churning midsection, and breathed in a lungful of his air before speaking.

"When was the last time you drank fresh?"

His eyes blew wide in angry shock, and he seemed to grow from his fury in front of her. She couldn't stop her arms from crossing defensively over her chest or her teeth from chattering in her head. But she stood her ground, even lengthened her neck in determined defiance.

"If what you've... procured... is better..."

It only took the blink of an eye for him to seize her by the throat, to slam her back into the opposite wall at the far side of the room. Her heart tipped crazily in her chest as her gaze flitted over his shoulder, to the staircase leading down that now seemed miles away, then back to his face, curled in an expression of malicious curiosity. "And what..." He purred, running his tongue slowly, deliberately, over the edges of his strong, even teeth. "If it's not?" She swallowed hard against the hand that held her fast, fingertips caressing her carotid, thumb stroking sensually over her jugular. Her blood raced in perfect response, as if he'd already slipped beneath her skin to command the thing within her that could mean life, or death, for them both. Closing her eyes, breathing deeply, she turned her head to the side. Biting down on her lip, feeling tears burning behind her lashes, she waited.

His voice, tremulous. Not the worst thing, she thought to herself, to be the last sound she’d hear.

"Lovely, stupid little fool..."

She gasped as he lunged, as his mouth found the warm, pale skin of her throat. But it wasn't the sharp sting of fangs she felt, no tearing of teeth at all.

It was a kiss.

His lips were cool and thin, working over her pulse point with slow, almost studious deliberation. She was suddenly thankful for the sheetrock at her back as her strength failed and her knees buckled beneath her. She grabbed at his shoulders and he lifted his head, the tip of his nose grazing along her cheek. The blue of his eyes had vanished entirely, the thin ring of iris surrounding his wide blown pupils now an inky black. His skin had paled to near translucence, and his mouth was puckered around the sour hunger that flooded his palate.

He was starving, ravenous. And he was fighting it with every ounce of will he had.

"Oh, God..." She whispered, horrified by the agonized need he couldn't hide. She lifted a hand to caress his jaw, but he caught her sharply by the wrist.

"There is no God here, my dear..."

She could have wept at the despair in his voice, and she wrenched her hand free from his grasp. Fisting the open lapels of his shirt, she threw her head back in unmistakable offering. "I'm here," she rasped. "What are you waiting for?"

His hands caught her face in a caress, and the tenderness in his touch both surprised and soothed her. He searched her soul through her eyes, his brow furrowing at what he found there. "You didn't come here to die… so… what? Immortality..?"

She bore his gaze as best she could, shaking her head timidly.

"I came here for you."

He scrutinized her a moment, as one might study a strange new species of bird or bug. "What's your name, girl?"

She drew in a deep breath, resisting the urge to lean into his hands, to turn her face and press her lips to his palm. "My friends call me Emma."

His fingers slid up into her hair, and she gasped as he gave a brisk tug. "That is not what I asked you."

She couldn't keep the grimace at bay. "My name is Emmaline."

His own expression never changed. "Well, sweet Emmaline..." His hands slid down her neck, lower, cupping and squeezing her breasts. "You asked what I was waiting for." He circled his thumbs around her nipples until she was certain they were hard enough to slice through her clothing; she couldn't help but arch into his touch.

"Yes..." She wasn't certain if it was question or affirmation.

His chuckle was warm velvet as he lay his cheek back in the crook of her neck. "This," he sighed, continuing to work his hands over her body. "This is what I'm waiting for. These little heartbeats where your breath comes faster, your head feels lighter." He dusted a line of kisses into the hollow beneath her ear as he dragged the silk of her blouse free from the waistband of her jeans. "I'm waiting for these moments when the sensation of my touch positively sizzles beneath your skin." His fingers ghosted over the bared landscape of her stomach and she tossed her head to the side, whimpering softly into his curls.

"Please..." She begged quietly.

"Shhhhh..."

It was exquisite agony, his breath in her ear as he loosened her clothing but did not undress her, the way he touched and tickled and teased. She writhed helplessly between the solid planes of his body and the unyielding barricade of the wall, feeling her own maddening hunger heating to a boil. She grabbed at his shirt, meaning to push it off his shoulders, but his fingers closed around her wrists like iron. He pinned her hands to the wall beside her head, his forehead pressed to hers. She could taste the longing on his breath as he kicked her legs apart, bracing them open with his feet inside her ankles. She hissed like an angry kitten, but he simply laughed, his tone one of gentle amusement.

"Please..." She implored once more.

He pulled back from her just a bit, enough to take in the flush that spread from the roots of her hair to the tiny rhinestone clasp between her breasts, the way her chest and belly hitched with her shallow gulps of air, the way her parted lips trembled in invitation.

"This, beautiful Emmaline... This is what I'm waiting for."

He shrugged his shirt off, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. His fingers made quick and graceful work of his belt, button, and zipper, and her eyes widened in lusty surprise at the sight of him, thick and engorged and as straining for her as she was for him.

Naked, he knelt in front of her, and she once again felt tears burn her eyes as he carefully removed one boot, then the other. His eyes locked on hers in reverence as he tugged down her jeans and her panties together, the soft hair that dusted his lips and chin tickling over the swell of her stomach.

"You came so that I could drink fresh...” He pressed a kiss to her mound before rising to his full height in front of her. "Be my perfect vintage, Emmaline." He reached up to pluck free the clip atop her head, releasing her tresses to tumble unkempt about her shoulders. "Ripen for me..."

She wrapped her arms around him as his hands plunged into the depths of her hair, and he sealed his lips over hers at last.

It was easily the most sensual kiss of her life, in every sense of the word. Time seemed to stand still as he allowed her the smallest taste of his life that had gone on for dozens of decades. She could taste wine that he'd sipped in a back alley bar in Venice. She could hear the cry of the gulls that had danced over his head on a beach in Greece. She could smell the motor oil and melted rubber that drifted on the air surrounding his house in Detroit. She could feel the soothing caress of a hand through her hair, the hand of a pale and luminous woman who whispered words of comfort through a wise and welcoming smile. She could see a long and dimly lit hallway dotted with doors closed for privacy, the half-strength fluorescents reflected in the scuffed tiled of the floor.

And behind the nondescript desk at the fork of this corridor, she saw herself. Her head bent over charts, her finger absently clicking a pen in her hand. Her neck was exposed by her upswept hair, and she could see the faintest trace of her own pulse throbbing lazily beneath her skin. She felt her mouth flood with hunger, her stomach twist with longing, and something else. A sensation familiar yet foreign, want and need surging south.

She moaned softly into his mouth when she realized - he was letting her feel what he felt when his cock hardened at the sight of her.

She'd strained to see the name on the badge that dangled from his neck every time he'd passed her in the hospital; she was all at once certain it read _Polidori_.

And yet, when his mouth left hers to dance along the angle of her jaw, the name she sighed into his ear was “…Adam…”

She felt his lips curl into a satisfied smile against her throat.

And then her eyes blew wide, her breath leaving her in a rush, as he filled her in one long, smooth stroke.

His cock was cool at first, but the heat of her body warmed him quickly, and he groaned at the feeling. Guiding her legs around his waist, he pressed her back against the wall. "Look at me..." She moved sluggishly, as if caught in the depths of some intoxicated dream, but she managed to straighten her head, to focus her eyes on his. "You're certain you want this, sweet Emmaline?" His voice was calm and clear as he moved within her, driving deep with slow but steady aim.

"Adam..." She slurred weakly.

" _Be. Certain. Darling_." His hands returned to hold her face; she groped her lips drunkenly against the thumb that traced them languidly. "This isn't a choice you can escape should you change your mind, a mark you can wash away when you feel the need to be free and clean." She could see color flushing his skin as he took her, as if her heat was bleeding into him from the place their bodies were joined. "There is no bargain here, my dear," he growled into her neck. "No negotiation. You give, I take. I call, you come." He lifted his head once more, his onyx eyes swallowing her whole.

"I own. And you? _You will belong to me entirely_."

She could feel the exact heartbeat when he released her from his hold. Her last chance to leave.

"Adam..." She wept softly. "I already do..."

He gasped a bit, shuddering under the weight of the decision she'd made.   And then he was lifting her, holding her, moving with inhuman strength and speed.

The bed was antique and luxurious, the sheets a deep, satiny scarlet. He was above her, inside her, his hands and lips everywhere at once. She arched, catlike, pulling him close, urging him on. His fingers bruised her thighs, her nails raked his back. Violent kisses of tongues and teeth and scalding hot breath. Too soon, and not nearly soon enough, she could feel it, her climax coiling deep in her belly, the tight spiral almost painful as he drove her higher and higher towards the pinnacle. But just before she could plunge over the edge, he grabbed her hair, forcing her to meet his eye.

"You're certain?" Ragged, desperate.

She nodded urgently. "Adam... I'm certain..."

She watched his eyes slide closed, his face twisted in pained ecstasy. "Fucking Christ... beautiful Emmaline... Come, love... come for me now..."

A brilliant flash of pointed ivory. And as her orgasm ripped through her, splitting her open like a razor through satin, his fangs sank deep into her throat.

Her eyes stretched open, pupils blown so wide the world was only brilliant, hazy colors bleeding one into another. The twin flashpoints of heat where his fangs pierced her skin sent burning lines of sensation coiling down to meet the waves of ecstasy boiling up from her core, until she was nothing more than a taut arch of electric pleasure in his arms. Her legs drew high and tight around his waist, her hips lifted urgently off the mattress as he thrust against her cervix, spilling his own release into her as her tight and velvety flesh milked his swollen, throbbing length.

Above her, Adam was lost in rapture he hadn’t felt for centuries. His every sense was heightened, tuned finer than the most exquisite instrument ever crafted by the hand of man. Her cries of satisfaction were a rhapsody, every individual minute tremble that created the sound perfectly discernable in his ears. Her body was silken heat under and around him, soft and supple as he sank deeper and deeper into her. Her scent overwhelmed him – the gentle orchid and sweet plum of her perfume, the Spanish oak the evening breeze had blown into her hair, the clean, feminine aroma of her perspiration, the coppery tang of her blood flowing from her broken skin.

_Dear God… her blood…_

Metallic yet mellow, it flowed over his tongue like honeyed copper wine with each beat of her pounding heart. He could taste every drop of adrenaline, every shot of endorphin that flooded her essence as her orgasm sparked and spasmed through her. She was the sweet oxygen of the morning breeze, the salt of the sea lapping at the sandy shore, the citrus of the sun that hadn’t caressed his skin for ages, and the spice of the secret dark she’d driven through to find him. His own climax was a secondary satisfaction; he swallowed her down and felt her fire surge through him, invigorating him in a way he’d long believed impossible.

“Adam…” She moaned softly as the iron grip of her climax began to relax. “Adam…”

He grunted hungrily into her neck, his softening cock still thrusting inside her, his lips still sealed over her leaking flesh.

“Adam…”

He hummed in reply, reveling in the sustenance she offered.

“Adam…”

Now barely a whisper, her head lolled back against the pillow, her form limp, boneless. A new flavor tickled his tongue, a musky, not entirely unpleasant bitterness that he recognized as his own. His head snapped back sharply, and he slid his arm beneath her to raise her up a bit. She was silent and still, and dangerously pale under her spill of long dark hair, against the crimson linens. “Fuck,” Adam cursed softy, passing a gentle thumb over the punctures in her skin that rapidly clotted and closed. “Jesus, love, I’m so sorry...”

Emma drew in air slowly, deeply through her nostrils, exhaled just as slow, her lips curled in a small and secret smile. Adam breathed a shuddering sigh, turning her to spoon against him on her side before drawing the linens up around her. He kissed her forehead, stroked his palm over her bare arm. “Emmaline,” he murmured her name quietly, then again with more urgency. “Emmaline?”

The word muddled into her brain, distant and choppy, as if spoken through a wall of water. Still drifting at the far edge of consciousness and more than willing to surrender to the haze, Emma groaned to herself like a child pouting at being roused for school. It was only when his voice was joined by the gentle tug of his lips at her ear that, with mighty effort, she forced her lids apart again.

The blue had returned to his eyes, but was now shot through with strands of brilliant gold. His brow and cheeks were flushed, and the lines of his face, while still strikingly angular, seemed softer somehow. Sated, satisfied, he regarded her sternly as she returned to her senses. “Emmaline? Answer me, my dear.”

She giggled a bit, blushing shyly. “What was the question?”

He rolled his eyes briefly, then took her face in his hands. He inspected the focus of her eyes, the color of her lips and palate. He traced his fingers along the veins in her neck, pausing here and there when he felt her pulse was too weak, too thready. Finally, he scrutinized the bite mark on her neck once more, until he felt certain it was sealed tight and would not trickle or ooze. Then he brushed his lips to hers once more, affection and appreciation wrapped up in the gesture.

She regarded him wordlessly for a moment, timidly inquisitive. “You thought you took too much.”

He bore her curiosity with a stoic smirk. “I very nearly did.”

She reached up to caress his jaw, her fingertips stroking at his gingery scruff. “But you didn’t.”

He sniffed at her in affected condescension. “Obviously not.” She lowered her gaze, feeling silly and stupid until his finger beneath her chin forced her to face him once more. His voice was low but steady. “It will never be that close again.”

Emma nodded. “I trust you, Adam.”

They held each other in silence for a long moment until a huge yawn split her mouth wide. “Foolish girl,” Adam sighed, settling into the nest of his pillows and drawing her up against him. “You need rest.” She snuggled obediently into his chest, tangling her legs through his beneath the sheets. Pressing her lips to the spot where his heart had beat hundreds of years before, she closed her eyes.

And as she drifted into the nether, she felt his fingers stroking softly through her hair, heard his voice whispering in reverent awe.

“Emmaline… my sweet Emmaline…”

And she smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Blood play, for here, and likely for each chapter going forward. He's a vampire, Lovely Readers. If it's not your thing, kindly don't proceed.

Her breathing was hypnotic.

Standing at the window, gazing out at the pre-dawn darkness, it was easy to lose himself in the soft, whispering in-and-out as the effects of her living serum worked deeper and deeper into his being. His vision, always sharp and keen, was laser-precise, tuned so fine he could tell exactly how close the sun was to peeking over the horizon. He could hear the hissing of the dust sifting over the ground in the early morning breeze beneath the subsiding song of the cicadas. He could smell the zinc-heavy sizzle of current traveling through the wires of the still illuminated light in the loft, and feel the arthritic creaking of the house as it shifted in the slowly warming air. His thoughts turned to the not unpleasant sting her nails had etched into the skin of his back, and the lingering heat of her tight, silky-sweet sex around his cock.

And, of course, he could still taste her.

The curtain fell back into place as he turned to lean against the wall, and he let his gaze crawl leisurely over the form of the woman slumbering in his bed. She was curled on her side around one of his pillows, one long, coltish leg kicked free from the sheets. Her toes were painted a summery pink; they curled just slightly as she sighed in her sleep. He followed the curve of her calf, taut, toned muscle under soft, luminous skin, up past her knee to her thighs and higher, to the secret flesh that lay between them, sill damp and sticky from the culmination of their exertions. The cascade spill of her dark hair covered her arm, her breast, and half of her face, several unruly waves the same scarlet as his linens. He couldn’t suppress a thin smile as he recalled the purple, the hot pink, the royal blue of previous weeks, rebellious decoration she took great pains to conceal under her professional façade. Sinking down to the mattress beside her, he extended one long finger, catching the heavy locks and smoothing them back over her shoulder.

Her face was pale, perfectly peaceful, her lush, rosy lips slightly parted as she dozed; his cock twitched slightly at the memory of their hungry surrender to his own. He’d tasted the blackberry in her tea and the rich marinade of her steak, and underneath, the honeyed soft flavor that was her own unique essence. Her light, breathy cries still echoed in his ears, and he knew the lilting, floral scent of her skin and sweat would linger in his sheets for weeks. He spent another long moment drinking her in before closing his eyes.

In the black behind his lids, he saw her waking, heard the satiny whisper of the sheets as her body stirred beneath them. Her pale, shapely limbs extending in a luxurious stretch, her rosebud mouth opening in a slow, lazy yawn. He imagined her enchanting mossy green eyes blinking open, slowly coming into focus in the dark. He could see her sleepy confusion giving rise to dawning horror as the reality of her whereabouts sank in, her tiny hands clutching the linens to her chest as the memories of the night before crashed over her like a tidal wave. Would she scream in terror? Crawl back away from him gibbering in fear? Would she have wits enough to play sweetly surprised, stammering adorably as she dressed in a hurry before stumbling towards the door?

Would she be slow, easy to capture? Or would he have to exert an ounce of speed to catch her before snapping her lovely neck?

_How in the fuck was this_ not _the worst mistake you could have made?_

He rubbed his hands briefly over his face, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the scent of her hair tangled in his fingers, the heat of her blood still warming his skin.

_She wanted to be here, came of her own accord. She_ followed _me for fuck’s sake!_

His gaze returned to her face, and he breathed a small sigh of grudging admiration. “Tenacious little thing…”

_Stop that. There’s no way this continues. Far too dangerous - for both of you._

He shifted on the bed, turning away from her, trying to focus on those words in his head, and not the memory of her voice in his ear… _Adam… Adam…_

“Adam…”

Breathy, but clear, plea and invitation. He glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised to see her still asleep, whispering to him softly from the depths of a dream. Her hands fluttered weakly, fisting and releasing in rhythmic contractions. She moved against the mattress, twisting her hips, her physical body unashamedly seeking the illusory contact. Her neck stretched as she arched, her head falling back, and he swallowed audibly as the blood that raced beneath her skin beckoned him closer. She’d fed him well; the vitality that surged within him would carry him easily for days. Even if it couldn’t, his stores were full and secure in the humming Frigidaire downstairs. His needs had been more than sated, but the _want_ that she’d awakened in him was more powerful than any force he’d felt in a century.

And for the first time in as long, he didn’t feel like fighting it.

With slow, careful deliberation he rose, catching the corner of the bedsheet and drawing it back. Her porcelain skin was glowing in the muted, golden light of the bedside lamp; he watched it come alive with the chill of goosebumps as he bared every inch. Her brow furrowed and she thrashed a bit against the pillow; he soothed her with a gentle stroke of his fingers through her hair. “Shhh,” he whispered, easing the length of his body onto the bed alongside her, “beautiful Emmaline…” She stilled at once, a gentle flush coloring her cheeks as she settled effortlessly, eagerly, back into her dream.

Satisfied, Adam leaned closer, nudging her chin until her head was turned away. The delicate, sloping landscape of her neck lay bare before him, and he nuzzled his way along one thin, blue line. His ears easily picked up the drumming of her heart, and he brushed his lips over her pulse point, relishing the way the rhythm hitched and hiccupped beneath his touch.

_One simple nip… a few quiet moments… she’d sleep right through the end._

He grit his teeth briefly at the thought before following the path of her circulation down, past the point where the vessels widened, to the muscular source that pumped steadily within the cage of her chest. He traced the tip of his tongue along the arch of her aorta, savoring the salty sweetness of her skin.

_Bite here, and it’s over even faster._

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the watery rush of her blood beneath his ear.

_At this rate, twenty beats of her heart… maybe thirty…_

He could see the crimson flow dripping down her porcelain skin, smearing his lips and chin as he drank at his leisure, what his mouth could not catch pooling on the sheets beneath her.

_Delicious indulgence…_

Emma stirred a bit beneath him, and he turned his attention to the willowy arm at her side, the thin, soft skin at her wrist.

_No need for fangs there, just one quick, efficient slash of teeth. Drink what you like, drain the rest into a cylinder. Problem solved._

He caught her hand in his own, drew it to his mouth. His fingers probed gently at the delicate bones, his parted lips closed over one faint cerulean thread.

“Adam…”

Timid, trusting. He turned his head to find her eyes, open and aware and watching him with a kind of reverent awe. He held her gaze steadily, waiting to see just exactly how dramatic their denouement would be. Her hand twisted in his grasp, but to his surprise, she did not pull away. Rather, she opened her palm, and lay it flush against his cheek. Her warmth flooded his skin, burned its way through him. His teeth clenched, his jaw tightened.

_Kill her. Kill her now._

He lunged, and felt her arms wind around him in welcome as he captured her mouth in a kiss of searing, violent hunger. She met every grope of his lips, every lash of his tongue with her own, pulling his weight down as she pushed her body up from the mattress against him. Her hands slid down his back as his plunged into her hair. She tore her mouth from his suddenly, and he tightened his grip, ready to hold her down as she struggled against the inevitable strike of his fangs on her flesh. But before he could tug her back even an inch, she relaxed, slack and pliable in his embrace. She let her head fall back, her eyes sliding shut, a small, serene smile curling the corners of her mouth. His own strength flagged in momentary shock as she stretched her neck, long and graceful, in offering.

_She can’t… she’s not…_

But she was. He could see the twin pinprick marks he’d left on her just a few hours earlier, nearly healed already, just two small spots of fading pink marring the otherwise flawless skin. He wasn’t hungry, not for her blood, but he dipped his mouth to them anyway, laving them with his tongue.

_KILL HER._

He buried his face in her neck, willing her to feel the ominous threat, to grasp how tenuous her every breath was as she lay in his arms, to scream, to struggle, to fight for her life. Her touch traveled back up the length of his spine, he felt her fingers slide into his hair to the scalp.

_Finally…_

He reached around to grab her wrists, pinning them to the pillow with a predatory snarl. But when he rose up above her, he saw no fear, no panic, no urge to flee at all. Her face was calm, her breathing rapid but even and controlled, and her legs still tanged willingly through his. And in her focused and fascinated sea green eyes, an inexplicable, undeniable trust.

“Adam?” Soft, sweet, almost a coo.

The last gossamer strands of his self-control snapped, and he crushed his mouth to hers once more. The kiss burned just as hot as the one he’d given her a moment before, the source of this flame much deeper, licking up to caress them both from a place far more dangerous inside his mind. He felt her shiver in wonder as he spilled little bits of himself into her: the smell of parchment and marble in the Malatestiana Library, the sound of the waves crashing near the base of the lighthouse in Maspalomas, the taste of dates dipped in amlou the vendors of Tangiers were so very proud to peddle. She blossomed beneath him, a flower starving for the storm, as she drank in every memory that bled from his aura into hers.

Releasing his grip on her arms, Adam nibbled tenderly on her lip before leaving her mouth entirely, the urge to explore her impossible to resist. His lips fit perfectly into the hollow of her throat; he kissed her again and again before sliding further south. She arched beneath him with a tiny, needy gasp as he teased his fingertips over her already taut nipples. Her hands fisted the pillow behind her head as he nipped first one, then the other, before suckling them into his mouth.

All at once, his tongue was flooded with the flavor of fresh, pulpy pineapple and cool mango juice, and he could feel the heat of the South Padre sun baking into his back. His eyes flew wide and his jaw sagged in disbelief as his head filled with the sound of children giggling, as the scent of seawater and sunscreen filled his nose. He rose up a little to look upon her, certain he’d find her staring him down. But her head was still thrown back in ecstasy, her eyes squeezed shut as if she were zeroing all her sensory focus on the flesh he teased and tasted. Unable to stop himself, he lowered his mouth to her once more, only to be swept away again…

_… the creaky clink of the chains of a playground swing, the wind of the rise and fall tickling his face and the back of his neck… the clap of thunder during a mid-summer storm, and the dust motes caught in the beam of a flashlight as two delightfully terrified siblings huddled under an afghan that smelled of cedar and lavender sachet… the acrid whiff of fresh paint and brand new nylon carpet as the door to the place,_ her _place, thudded quietly closed…_

“Sweet Emmaline…” He dragged his parted lips down the center of her stomach, dipped his tongue into the tiny cup of her navel.

“Oh, God… Adam…”

He was already pushing her quivering thighs apart, settling his body comfortably between them. Her soft downy curls were the same dark chestnut as the hair on her head; they tangled sensually with his whiskers as he nuzzled his way lower, and lower still. She gave a tiny yip of pleasure as he parted her folds with his tongue, and he was lost once more in the secrets her body whispered to him. He could smell steam in the air, heavy with the fragrance of vanilla and amber and vetiver. Dual sensations of hot water and cool tile, and the soapy slickness of clean skin beneath curious fingers seeking her tight, wet, waiting heat. The way she arched into her own touch, the way she closed her eyes.

The way she sought him even then, all those weeks before.

“Emmaline…”

Gentle command. She lifted her head from the pillow, found his gaze, held it fast.  

Without another word, Adam buried his mouth in the wet, flushed sweetness of her sex, teasing his tongue into her entrance in slow, deliberate strokes. Her hands fluttered to the linens at her sides, fisting the material and pulling reflexively. He chuckled warmly against her tender flesh, letting the sound and sensation vibrate through her to her core. Catching her wrists, he guided her touch over the trembling muscles of her thighs, showing her how he wanted her to hold her legs, up and open, leaving her spread wide and exposed before him. "Delightful girl,” he hummed, stealing another long, leisurely taste. “You are ambrosia..."

She whimpered softly, her nails digging into the tender skin behind her knees. "Ohh... Adam..."

"Shhhhhh," he hushed her before slipping his tongue inside her once more. Her eyes rolled back in her skull as he pressed deep, her body bowing off the bed in a sweetly whorish display of desire. He indulged her with a few long moments of gentle licking, nibbling, suckling, making certain every quivering petal received its due attention. Then, once it seemed she’d learned his rhythm, he put his hands on her, his fingers moving to rub and probe and discover, lapping eagerly at the juices her body poured forth in elated gratitude.

He could hear every drop of her blood singing softly to him in her veins, every cell dancing at his direction as he claimed her. The trembling bow of her mouth cried out in helpless pleasure as two long fingers pierced, explored, finding and fondling every secret, sensitive spot within her. He worked her silently, skillfully, his wordless mastery of her body cueing her to hold still and frozen one moment, urging her to fuck wantonly against his mouth the next. Soon every pore in her skin opened, wept, until her entire being shimmered in the golden light. And when her peak bore down on her, drawing every sensation within her into a tight, coiled spring, he drew her closer, pulling her legs up over his shoulders. Her fingers slid into the silk of his hair as his twisted and scissored inside her, his lips teasing and tugging at the throbbing little bud of her swollen clitoris. She pressed herself up against him, higher and higher, until her release flooded over his mouth, his chin.

As she screamed his name to the ceiling, Adam pulled back just a bit, memorizing the sight of her lost in the throes of her orgasm. Every muscle tensed and taut, her skin flushed, her pulse throbbing in his ears like a racing, echoing metronome. His lips pulled back from his teeth in the smallest smile of satisfaction, his fangs shining in the dim. He turned his head, only an inch, dusted a chaste kiss to the tender flesh high inside her thigh. A quick, painless nick from one razor fine point, just deep enough. He watched the ruby drop well and fatten before sliding down the creamy landscape, leaving a thin vermillion trail in its wake. He inhaled the crisp, coppery scent before licking her clean, smiling at the tang that spread across his tongue and flowing sweetly into his palate.

He eased her carefully back to the bed, watching her melt as if boneless, weightless, into the embrace of the mattress. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her belly, needing to taste the fading fireworks of her climax as they popped and cascaded in quaking decrescendo. And then, above the whisper of her slowly calming circulation and the quieting cadence of her heart, his name.

“Adam…”

Plea, invitation.

Her grey-green eyes were open, awake, _aware._ He met her gaze and held it for a long moment, his thumb languidly tracing over the flesh and muscle that concealed the silent stream of her femoral artery.

_Last chance…_

He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth, his expression set in grim determination. Finally, with a resolute sigh, he crawled gracefully up the length of her body, into her weakly shaking but warmly welcoming arms. He brushed her hair back from her brow with a reverent sweep of his hand, then offered her the taste of herself on his parted lips. She accepted gratefully, once again blooming beneath him like evening primrose turning its lovely face to greet the full moon. He slipped his hand behind her head, wound his other arm around her waist, and drew her against him as he took each breath she offered.

She was asleep in his arms again before the kiss had completely faded. And still, she smiled secretly, shivering beneath his soft whisper.

“My lovely little Emmaline…”


	10. Chapter 10

She’d never dreamed so vividly in her life.

From the moment he’d collected her into his embrace and urged her to rest, closing her eyes had become the equivalent of stepping into other worlds, other times. She could smell the moss-covered rocks and the sweet heather on the breeze that whispered across her face as she walked an old English field, the heavy but comforting stonemason’s hand resting on her shoulder. She could taste the dark wine that was as bitter as the laughter George and Percy coughed across the table, Byron’s hand grasping at her knee beneath it before she nudged it quickly but politely away. And she could hear the lyrical call of a nightingale rising on the early morning air as she reclined on a settee in a small Istanbul apartment, watching the flames of the candles on the windowsill gutter and wink out as their wicks vanished into ash.

And then his lips, a cool caress against her wrist, and she opened her eyes. There was no haze of retreating sleep, no confusion brought on by the darkness, or the silence, or the beautifully brokedown bedroom. No fear, either, of the vampire lying next to her in his bed.

The logical voice in her brain outlined thoroughly, and rather patiently, why she should have been terrified, horrified, at the very least nervous to be so close to such a creature, to have already fallen victim to his appetite. Her head filled with dark visions born from books and cinema – long, gaunt men with hollow eyes and pale, pasty skin, fingers like talons, mouths full of razor sharp teeth. She imagined such figures swathed in midnight black capes, sleeping in ebony coffins lined with red satin, skulking through ancient and mildewed stone hallways as the sun disappeared from the sky, waiting for the safety of the night to prowl.  

The man next to her was about as far a cry from such beings as she herself was. His nude, sculpted body was luminous in the shadowy light, his long, silky curls tousled around his head like a dark halo. His brilliant blue eyes dimmed in icy challenge as his mouth dusted over her pulse point, but the ocean green of her own remained calm, steady. She turned her hand in his grasp, caressing his cold, smooth cheek, running her thumb along the sharp angle of his jaw. She saw the spark that flickered in the depths of his stare, watched it ignite into a blaze at her touch, and her lips were parted and ready when at last he seized them with his own.

It was easy, natural, desirable to lose herself to him once more as he explored her, touched her, tasted her. He was history and curiosity, memory and music, myth and mystery. He flowed into her as he drew from her, learning her in the same small sips and samples that spilled from him like drops of savory wine from a glass filled too full. She arched and writhed beneath him, singing out the music he wrote on her flesh with his lips and tongue until she was breathless and grateful and shaking. She felt the delicious sting of his fang on her skin, the tickle of blood sliding down the inside of her thigh, the sweeping caress of his tongue as he licked it away. And then he was above her once more, holding her, kissing her until the heady thrill wound around her like a warm and heavy blanket, pulling her back down into the depths of sleep, and dreams that were as much his memory as they were her imagination.

The bedside lamp was off and the curtains were open when she roused again, hours later, silver-blue moonlight spilling across the carpet. She was alone in the bed, and in the room, but it only took a moment for the music drifting through the open door to reveal her host’s whereabouts. She lay nestled in the linens, stretching her arms and legs and wiggling her toes as she listened to him pick and pluck at what she assumed was the same guitar he’d been bent over the night before. The tune was almost the same, but now it sounded more tethered, halting, as if he’d decided the pieces didn’t quite fit together to his liking. She chewed thoughtfully on her lip as his twiddling and tweaking continued, wondering how best to approach him, how to ask if she should stay or go, how to not be embarrassed by asking if his intriguing but disheveled palace had a working bathroom. The guitar fell silent; pulling the sheet around her body, she pushed herself up from the bed.

She’d just reached the doorway when the music started again, and her heart paused briefly in her chest. Slow, sanguine, a rich and resonant sound that she felt as much as heard; she leaned heavily against the jamb as her knees weakened beneath her. The same melody he’d played as she stood in the foyer below, yet deeper somehow… more soulful… seductive. It caressed her, almost as tangibly as his hands, enticed her, drew her close. She floated soundlessly across the floor, once again kneeling at his feet. His eyes were closed, his head back on his neck, but she knew the small nod he dropped was a welcome, and she lay her cheek against his knee.

It wasn’t the heady rush of drawing her essence into his veins, nor was it the blissful release of spilling his own into her warm, waiting depths. But for Adam it was its own unique ecstasy: having her near, smelling her hair and her skin and her reverent desire as he enclosed them both in a lovely cocoon of sound. His fingers moved with ease, finding each fret, stroking each string, coaxing forth the song that had lilted elusively through his brain for weeks. The relief he felt was exquisite.

Until the music stopped. Until he opened his eyes.

“Emmaline?”

The smile she offered him was sweet, sincere, but strained. Her own eyes were open, but glazed, the skin beneath them slightly sunken and shadowed. Her snowy skin was sallow, her full, rosebud lips markedly dusky, and a faint sheen of perspiration shone sickly on her forehead. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he snarled in exasperation, putting the guitar aside and rising to his feet.

“What?” Emma cringed a bit, feeling small and scared, planting her hands on the sofa to give herself leverage. “What’s the… oh… whoa…” She staggered ungainly as she tried to stand, powerless to resist as Adam swept her into his arms.

“Pretty little fool,” he chided gruffly, carrying her back to the bed. She had barely reclined into the pillows when he was gone and back in a flash, holding a glass of tap water to her lips. She crinkled her nose at the slightly metallic scent, but the stern warning in his glacial stare choked any denial in her throat. She sipped a little, then a little more, then whimpered in surprise when her thirst reared its head with a vengeance. “Slowly… slow…” Adam clenched his teeth, pulling the glass away when she attempted to empty it in a few desperate gulps.

“Sorry,” Emma croaked softly, gazing up at him gratefully when he returned the cup to her mouth. Her stomach roiled, and for a moment she was certain it would kick back its contents in an ungraceful hitch and heave. But then Adam’s cool hand circled the back of her neck, his lips trailed over her forehead, and she closed her eyes, sinking into the mattress with a weary little mewl of relief.

Shaking his head, Adam tucked the linens around her shoulders before catching her face in his hands. “You stay here,” he insisted. Emma’s nod was dazed, but she burrowed into the pillow when he let her go, clutching the sheet beneath her chin. She watched him grab a t-shirt from the chair in the corner and pull it over his head with a muttered curse before disappearing out the door, down the stairs. A moment later, she heard the growl of the Jaguar’s engine turning over, and she closed her eyes with a fatigued sigh as its roar faded into the distance.

Adam gripped the steering wheel with near bone-cracking strength as he scowled out at the night around him. _Stupid,_ the voice inside his head hissed venomously. _Stupid… sloppy… Christ, this was such a mistake._ He could still smell the acrid tang of her perspiration on his fingertips, could still feel the residual clamminess of the cold, damp skin at the nape of her neck, her body sending out distress signal after distress signal as the sugar and electrolyte levels in her diminished blood supply dipped lower, and lower still.

_Lovely little idiot… what was she thinking? That she could nip down to the cupboard for a midnight snack? Call out for pizza? An RN, for fuck’s sake, thought sure she had a brain in that pretty head of hers, how could she not fucking know better?_

He gnashed his teeth in frustration as he eased the car from the dirt to the paved road that would lead him to the interstate.

_This can’t go on. You must know that._

He rolled down the window as he raked a hand through his hair, let the cool evening breeze wash across his brow.

_Yes, she’s a beauty. She’s clever enough… headstrong… determined… delicious…_

He ran his tongue briefly over his lips at the memory of her, crisp and coppery, flowing over his palate.

_Don’t be a stupid fucking git, there’s no room for romance here. What are you going to do? Keep her as a pet? Fuck her and feed from her and then send her off home until you fancy another taste and tumble? You’ve a brain in YOUR head, use it!_

He banked the vehicle onto the frontage of I-35, flicking the headlights on with a sniff.

_Find her food. Get her fed. Let her rest. Then send her on her way._

He dropped one hand to his lap, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He thought of the hospital, of Vicente Gabriel, of the clandestine bargain he’d struck to weave himself a lifeline.

_That lifeline runs through halls she walks at least three nights a week._

He imagined stepping into that building that smelled of her, that thrummed with energy he now realized had always flowed, at least in part, from her magnetic vivacity. He envisioned finding himself side by side with her in the elevator and refusing to acknowledge her, coming face to face with her as she moved about her duties and feigning oblivion, trying to ignore her as she charted from the desk directly across from his destination. What questions could come from one observed glance that lingered too long… or one accidental touch, however fleeting, however brief…

_It wouldn’t be hard to learn her schedule and adjust yours accordingly and you bloody well know it._

The truck stop that was the only sign of life for miles appeared on his right, and he sighed heavily. “She found me once… she could find her way back again…” he whispered into the wind.

_Not…_

He closed his eyes as he turned the Jaguar into the empty lot beneath the cheery neon “Always Open”.

_… if you make it **clear**_ _that it is not in her best interest…_

He killed the engine, let his head fall back against the headrest. “Emmaline…” he muttered beneath his breath before throwing open the door and stepping out into the night.

_It won’t be difficult. She DOES have a brain in her head, you know she does. She’ll see reason, even if she’s unhappy about it. And if she is unhappy about it… well… she’s sharp enough to know she’s no one to blame but herself._

The diner door swung open, the merry tinkling of the bell above dancing on the warm air that gusted softly against his face and forehead. He breathed deep and gasped just a touch as the memory of the honey-almond scent of her hair filled his nose, and the lilting sound of his name in her voice echoed in his ears.

_Of course, you could just stand here mooning a bit longer. Then the only problem to solve will be where to put the body when you get home to find her heart gave out. Pity… should have just drained her dry and saved the gas…_

With a shake of his head and a muted snarl, Adam stepped to the counter to place her order.

************

“Jesus… my head…”

Emma pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead between her eyes, the pulse in her temples throbbing in time to her croaking groan. She fought her way up onto her elbows, sweeping her gaze drunkenly from side to side before remembering that she was alone in the house. She spoke his name anyway, as if the word would anchor the room to the foundation and stop everything from spinning. “Adam…”

_He’s gone to get food, right? I mean… he obviously figured out the dehydration… it’s not that far a stretch to guess that I’m starving, too… right?_

Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth, her swallows were rusty and hitching in her throat.

_I’m obviously not **that** far gone, I am awake and upright, after all. Still… probably wouldn’t hurt to hope he’s not taking his time._

She scrubbed a hand limply over her face, thought about her purse ( _where_ is _my purse, exactly?)_ , and the cheesecake she’d forgotten about the moment she saw him emerge from the hospital ( _last night? the night before?)_ still tucked inside _._ She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it moldering in its clear plastic box, but reminded herself that, at least, the berries on top might yet be salvageable if she found herself dizzy or drifting. Wincing at the sensation of wet concrete shifting between her ears as she moved, she reached for the glass he’d left on the bedside table. Again she scrunched at the metallic scent that filled her nostrils, but she drank anyway, slowly, sluggishly. She nearly missed the tabletop when she reached to set the tumbler down once more, hiccupping a squeak of relief when she managed to keep it from crashing to the floor. “Careful…”

_Careful,_ the voice inside her head snorted rudely. _You worry about being careful now? Isn’t that a bit day-late-dollar-short? You **knew** something was off… odd… but you followed him here anyway. Even when you couldn’t see him, had no way of knowing you’d find him. You kept going. Alone. In the middle of the night. And as soon as you found him… what then? You **threw**_ _yourself at him. You let him fuck you. You let him **feed**_ _on you… Christ, if he walked through that door right now and gave you the eye you’d lie back and let him do **both** again, even if it killed you._

She sniffed a small giggle trough her nose. “I’d die happy.”

_You’d DIE. Death. **Dead**. Stupid, impulsive imbecile! Even if he lets you go now, who’s to say he won’t come after you later?_

She flopped back into the nest of pillows with an audible grunt. “If he was going to hurt me… kill me… wouldn’t he have done it already?”

_Are you serious? Do you really believe you can apply that kind of logic here? He’s a fucking VAMPIRE, for Christ’s sake! Not some weird underground punk guy that decided to go way alternative and wear black and drink the drippings from the ground beef in the fridge and bite people when he’s feeling a little kinky. He’s **really**_ _a vampire. One minute he was kissing you and his teeth were perfectly normal and then you’re coming on his cock and he **sprouts fangs** and **he bit you**_ _and **he drank your fucking blood**_. _He’s hundreds of years old… you **saw** that… you **believe** that. Whatever this is, it’s **not** logical, it’s **not** natural… how can you possibly consider sticking around?_

The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires brought her internal monologue to a halt, and she struggled to sit up when she heard first the car door, then the front door slam shut. She swallowed mechanically at the soft thunder of his boots on the stairs, her teeth closing on her dry lower lip as he filled the doorway.

Adam’s expression was meticulously composed, unreadable as he took in the sight of her, all tousled hair and pale skin and long, coltish limbs tangled in his bedsheets. He knew without looking that the glass on the nightstand was empty, he could see the effects of the water in the increased clarity of her gaze. He stared coolly at her for a long moment, unmoving, until she shifted slightly against the mattress.

“That smells amazing.”

Her words reminded him of the warm white paper sack he held in one hand, the cold Styrofoam cup in the other. He crossed the room without speaking, holding each out to her unceremoniously. She took them with a grateful smile, but he frowned down at her when her expression remained politely expectant.

His silence was unnerving, and Emma found herself needing to clear her throat before she could ask. “Straw?” He rolled his eyes, tilting his head sternly, and she gave a small shrug of surrender. “I’ll check the bag.” There was indeed a straw nestled bedside the food, and she poked it briskly through the lid of the cup before taking a long, deep drink. The sweet strawberry cream flowed across her tongue, and she shivered a little in delight. “My favorite,” she mused softly, offering him a shy smile. “Thank you.”

Adam continued to watch her with barely engaged interest, crossing his arms over his chest. “Eat. Please.”

Setting the milkshake aside, Emmaline dug into the bag once more, her smile widening when she saw the onion rings tucked alongside the burger instead of French fries. “I don’t know that this is going to do much for my breath,” she tossed one into her mouth with aplomb, “but I really do appreciate it.” Her stomach growled suddenly in earnest, and she found she couldn’t tear the wrapper off the burger fast enough. Swallowing the mouthful she already had, she took a wolfish bite, relishing the crunch of the lettuce, the tang of the mustard. After a moment of ravenous chewing, she cocked an eyebrow at the figure that still stood inert at the foot of the bed. “You know,” she licked the corner of her mouth, “I understand you can’t exactly join me here, but the least you could do is have a seat. You know, make a girl feel a little less self-conscious?”

Rolling his eyes, Adam slumped to the mattress with a sigh of irritation, leaning heavily against the wooden footboard and stretching one long leg out in front of him. He watched her from beneath hooded eyes as she ate, a kind of resentful fascination furrowing his brow. Slowly, a faint tinge of pink returned to her cheeks, and he could smell the shift beneath her skin as her body rushed to restore balance in the wake of what he’d plundered from her. Once the last bite had been swallowed and her cup was empty, Emma collected her trash and placed it on the nightstand, curling her fingers in the sheet at her chest with another tiny, curious smile. “Thank you again.”

Adam could see from the clouded light in her eyes something was at work behind them, and he raised his chin a notch. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she dropped her gaze to her lap. “It’s just…” she groped awkwardly for words. “I should have known, you know. After…” she gestured towards the bed, then stroked her fingertips absently over the barely-there marks on her neck. “I should have known I would need… that I couldn’t just… And you…” Her speech hitched briefly as she lifted her eyes to his face. “You certainly didn’t have to…” She pointed at the refuse from her meal. “But no one’s ever gotten it right like that before, you know?” She smiled, a small, secret curl of her lips as she read the order on the handwritten ticket stapled to the sack. “Not without asking… and… you didn’t ask… and it… I just…” She was surprised and more than a little embarrassed when she felt a single tear pool in the corner of her eye, then slide slowly down her cheek. “You want me to go,” she sniffed quietly.

It wasn’t a question, and Adam muttered a taut curse under his breath. “You want to stay.”

Emma wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but his tone of somnolent resignation made her look up once more, bewildered. “It… it’s not up to me…? Is it?”

The two regarded one another in the midnight dim for a long moment. Then, ever so slowly, Adam lifted his arm from where he’d draped it along the bedframe. Crooking a stern, beckoning finger, he sat straighter as Emma rose to her knees, the sheet falling away from her body as she crawled obediently forward. That same finger tucked a lock of blazing scarlet behind her ear before catching her carefully beneath her chin. “Lovely girl,” he murmured low, his breath a cool whisper against her skin, “you’ve no idea what you’re doing.”

“No,” she admitted, forcing herself not to shy away.

His brow quirked in enquiry. “Did you come here to die, Emmaline?”

She swallowed hard against the clicking in her throat. “No, Adam,” she murmured tremulously. “I don’t want to die.”

“Of course not,” he cooed, his tone slightly edged with warm condescension. “Did you come here to live forever?”

She wasn’t certain if there was a correct answer, all she could do was offer her honesty. “No.”

Adam offered her a dark, wicked smirk in return as his hand caressed her cheek. “So you come to me, a beautiful blood sacrifice, and I’m supposed to believe that’s all this is? That’s all you are?” He laughed, a rich but weary rumble. “I’ve walked this world a long, long time, dear girl.” He leaned a bit closer, the tip of his nose grazing her own. “Long enough to know the human condition inherently forbids giving something and taking nothing in return. So tell me, pretty, precious, fragile thing…” He squared his shoulders, looking at her down the line of his nose. “What do you want?”

Her answer was soft, but swift and steady. “You, Adam. I just want to be with you.”

It was his turn to swallow hard. “Sweet Emmaline,” he breathed, his lips close enough to brush teasingly against hers as he spoke. “I’ll say this just once more: whatever this is, whatever it becomes, what it is _not_ , and never will be, is a fairy tale. You are beautiful, love,” his fingers slid beneath her hair, his thumb stroking over the pulse that throbbed below her jaw. “Quick and clever, luscious, delicious. But, my darling Emmaline, you are not a princess. There is no magic here.” A hint of shadow passed over the blue and gold of his irises as his pupils slowly dilated. “And make no mistake, love.” His grin widened ever so slightly, and she could see the silver moonlight winking from the narrowed tips of his needle-sharp incisors. “I am _not_ a prince.”

“I know,” another tear slipped silently down her cheek as she nodded, leaning into the touch gently tightening at her throat. “But Adam…” her soft voice never faltered. “I want you anyway.”

Silence hung deafening in the air between them for a long moment beneath the weight of her words. Then, slowly, Adam shifted on the bed, rising on his knees, his hand still closed firmly beneath her chin. He used his grip to pull her to him, hissing quietly against her parted lips. She smiled, sighed, slack under his control, and he trembled with hungry desire as she turned her head in supplication. “My lovely Emmaline…” His free hand caught her wrist; she inhaled sharply in ecstatic surprise when his fangs just nicked her skin. The tiniest of trickles, but he closed his lips around the punctures and suckled gently, until the subtle surge of her vitality through his veins had him hard and hot, burning for her touch.

Her blood was still wet on his lips and tongue when he crushed his mouth to hers at last, and she whimpered at the taste, greedily devouring his kiss. She clawed at his t-shirt, and he broke away from her just long enough to sweep it impatiently over his head. His button and zipper scraped roughly against the tender flesh of her belly as his body pressed her to the mattress beneath them but she didn’t care; her fingers battled with his as they struggled to strip away that last denim barrier between them. Finally free of it, Adam dragged her up once again, guiding her legs around his waist and filling her, swift and smooth.

Emma’s fingers tangled in the curls at the back of his head, her breath forced from her in sweet, open-mouthed gasps with every urgent upward thrust of his hips. Her forehead pressed against his, their eyes locked. His fangs had receded, and she traced the tip of her tongue over the smooth ivory surfaces that remained. He nipped at her with a low growl, his hands tightening on the taut swells of her ass.

“Adam…”

“Emmaline…”

“Yes… oh, God, please… yes… _yes_ …”

She threw her head back on her neck as her climax unfurled, the drum of her racing heart echoing in both of their ears. Adam pressed his mouth to the skin just above her breast, as if to taste every fluttering beat. And as her short nails scraped against his scalp, as the muscles that held him within her clenched and tightened around his engorged and aching length, he put her on her back, pressing deep, spilling inside her before her body could relax beneath his own. She wrapped herself around him, holding him close, sobbing soft gratitude into his neck as he stroked her hair, danced his lips over the already clotted pinpricks beneath her palm.

Later, as the first rays of the morning sun began to peek over the horizon, Adam yawned and stretched languidly, tugging at the cord that held the heavy curtains back against the wall. The knot released, and the room was shrouded in darkness as the blackout panels swung into place with a brisk linen sigh. It crossed his mind briefly to leave their quiet little cocoon, if only for a moment, to fetch a guitar or mandolin – something, anything to wind down the composition that continued to pirouette persistently through his brain. But when Emma’s body remained curled against his, so warm and welcoming, her arm across his chest, her rosebud lips against his neck, he found he simply didn’t have the heart to disturb her. So as he listened to the rhythm of her slowing respiration, he began to hum, breathing out the somber yet sanguine melody he was nearly ready to put to vinyl.

And as the tide of his own fatigue crested to draw him under, as his own timbre fell silent on the last few bars, Emmaline’s picked up the cadence, finishing the line in her soft, sweet voice, every note in perfect pitch.


	11. Chapter 11

“I swear to God, Emma, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m gonna kill you.”

Emma made sure to swallow the small, secret smile she knew had been curling her lips before turning away from the open chart on the counter to face Amy with wide, innocent eyes. “What?”

The petite blonde cocked her hip before planting her hand firmly upon it and glowering humorlessly. “Do not.” She waggled a rogue finger at Emma’s casual expression. “Do not give me this ‘What are you talking about, Aim? Nothing’s going on, Aim. There’s nothing to tell, Aim.”

Breathing a pointed sigh, Emma said a silent prayer of thanks that her friend’s first shift of the week fell on the same night as her last. “There _is_ nothing to tell, Aim,” she giggled, clicking her ballpoint closed before tucking it into her pocket and turning on her heel.

“Bull _shit_ ,” Amy followed close behind as they approached the dry erase board that listed all the necessary patient information for their wing. “You spend months moping around this place like Debbie Downer, the only time you’re not sulking or scowling is when you’re stalking the floor like you’re completely on edge, you push back against everything anybody tries to do to make you feel better. Then you hole up at home, I don’t see or hear from you for days, and now… this?” She waved her hand in a sweeping gesture as Emma grabbed a marker and rose on tiptoe to add her latest admission to the roster.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?” Emma fixed the shorter nurse with a pointed stare as she scribbled.

“I mean,” Amy rolled her eyes. “You look… fucking great.”

Emma couldn’t suppress her grin, capping the pen and tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I do?”

“Yeah,” Amy nodded sincerely. “I mean… you’re pale as shit. But… I don’t know, you look… lighter somehow. Happy again. More relaxed… more yourself.”

“Well, thanks,” Emma reached out to squeeze her friends shoulder. “I appreciate that.”

“Oh, shove your appreciation!” Amy scoffed, shrugging off her gentle touch. “Tell me what is going on!”

The surgeon scrawling notes at the nurse’s station glanced up at the young woman’s urgent command, and Emma pressed her fingers to her lips, hissing a muted “shhhh” before waving an apologetic hand her direction. “Keep it down,” she chided, rounding the desk and sitting down with a prim little sniff. Amy ducked into the seat next to hers, eyeing the MD at the counter impatiently until the woman flipped the binder closed and tucked it into the rack at her elbow. Emma busied herself clicking away at the keyboard, but once the doctor’s departing footsteps had faded down the sterile hallway, Amy grabbed the arms of her chair and spun it sharply, bringing them face to face once more.

“Emmaline!”

_Emmaline…_

Emma closed her eyes briefly as goosebumps dotted her skin, as her belly hitched deliciously at the memory of the name she’d despised shaped by his lips, caressed by his voice.

_My beautiful Emmaline…_

She’d stayed in his house as long as she’d dared, watching him move about his life within those walls as coolly as if she were no more than a curious new piece of furniture or wall dressing. If not for the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter on the bedside table, the half-gallon of milk and small bag of mandarin oranges in the refrigerator, she might have thought that when he wasn’t touching her, she’d left his mind completely. And the last few hours of her visit, he’d barely touched her at all. He’d spent most of his time that final night bent over a curious kind of turntable, tinkering with and growling at it the way she remembered Ethan had with his first car, a battered but burly Plymouth Valiant Duster. She’d watched from her perch on the shabby Victorian, his black Oxford semi-buttoned over her panties, the comforter from his bed wrapped around her shoulders.

He was fascinating, this man she’d found, with his long, graceful fingers and his dark, furrowed brow. He worked over the machine as if he were listening to it, the way a doctor might feel out the bumps and bruises of a patient who prattled and groaned, rather unhelpfully, about this pain and that one and the other. He never cast so much as a glance her way; not when she crept out of the bedroom to take up audience, not when she’d moved to fix a sandwich to quiet her rumbling stomach, not when she’d sighed dreamily as, after the contraption seemed to be back in working order, he switched it on and picked up his guitar to stroke out the melody that had been winding elusively through their time together. Once or twice she’d felt like humming along, the tune seeming to dance beneath her skin like a not-unpleasant itch, but she kept her voice silent. Still, when he set the instrument aside to flip a switch and turn a dial and the sounds of the song played back in pure and simple tones, she couldn’t suppress a tiny gasp, or a small flutter of delighted applause.

The sound jerked Adam’s head upright, but his shadowed expression held the smallest shine of pride and self-satisfaction. He quirked the corner of his mouth at her in a brief half-smile, and for a moment, she thought he’d prowl close to her, drag her to the floor beneath him, touch her and taste her and tease her until they were tangled together once more on the thick antique carpet. But in the blink of an eye his focus had shifted again, and after a fiddling here and an adjustment there, he rose and turned away from her to fetch the Gretsch from its rack in the corner. Cords plugged and wires connected, and soon the instrument was alive in his hands, singing out the perfect harmony to braid through his composition. Emma sat back with a sigh, smiling through her sense of unfulfilled longing, and let the music wash over her like a cool, comforting tide.

She’d taken great care not to disturb him when she collected her things and returned to his room to dress, gazing out the window at the dark early morning sky as she closed the final buttons on her blouse. So she jumped a little in surprise when his arms snaked around her waist from behind, his chin hooking over her shoulder. She leaned back against him, running her palms over the definition of his forearms as he nuzzled her neck through the tousled spill of her hair. His voice rumbled against her spine, echoed through her brain. “You have to go.”

She nodded, thinking of the hospital, of unlaundered scrubs, of an empty cat food dish. “I do.”

His hold on her may have tightened briefly; it may just have been her hopeful imagination. “You still want to return?”

She nodded again, turning her face to his. “I do.” Her mossy green eyes searched the calm, cool blue of his. “When?”

His hand slipped up to caress her throat; she knew the kiss would be his only reply. “My beautiful Emmaline…”

_Emmaline…_

“Oh, my God… EMMALINE!”

“What?” Emma snapped out of her reverie with a start, her cheeks flushing under Amy’s scrutinizing stare.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you are really far gone.” Amy’s face was a storm of curiosity, consternation, and concern. “Emma, please. Talk to me.”

Emma sighed softly, wanting badly to spill her delicious (if unbelievable) secret to her one friend that would appreciate it most, yet knowing in her marrow what a terrible mistake it would be. “Listen, Amy, really,” she smiled with a gentle shake of her head. “There’s nothing to tell. _Really_. I’m sorry if I freaked you out, but I swear, there’s nothing. I finished my week and, like you said, just… holed up for a few days. Got a lot of rest, listened to some really good music,” she paused briefly. “I just, you know, took a break. Left reality behind for a while.” She smiled, opening her hands in a gesture of offering. “That’s all.”

“Emma,” the young woman blew her bangs off her forehead, and Emma’s gut twisted a little when she saw no trace of Amy’s normal devil-may-care girlish entitlement, only warm and genuine worry. “I don’t believe you. You don’t… flip a switch like this unless there’s something…” she narrowed her eyes briefly, “or someone…” When Emma managed to keep her expression open and neutral, Amy’s shoulders slumped with a weary sigh. “Okay, fine. Don’t tell me.”

“Amy,” Emma tried to laugh a little. “Come on…”

“No, it’s fine,” the blonde raised her chin a notch, clearly struggling to balance her respect for her friend’s privacy against the bitter sting of her wounded pride. “You don’t want to tell me. I get it. But… would you please, _please_ just admit that I’m right?” Emma glanced away, biting her lip; now it was Amy’s turn to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m a nosy bitch, I know that,” her voice was soft, chagrined. “But I swear, Em, all I’m trying to do is be your friend, watch your back, you know?”

Emma offered her a sad little smile. “You _are_ my friend, Amy. And I love you for looking out for me, I do. I just…” she groped for words for a moment, “I promise you, there is nothing to tell.” When she saw the young woman’s face darken in discouragement, she added in a whisper, “yet.”

Slowly, the spark returned to Amy’s eyes. “Yet?” A heartbeat of quiet, and then her sneakered feet drummed briskly on the tile floor. “You met somebody…”

“No,” Emma shook her head hastily, “that is not what I said…”

“No, no, no, Em, it’s okay!” Amy was positively vibrating in her chair. “I won’t push, I won’t, I swear! I know you, I know shit like this is a big deal to you, and…” Her words melted into a tiny squeal. “You met someone!”

“No!” Emma insisted, then waffled, as much for performance sake as anything. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Oh, Emma!” Amy threw her arms around her neck as Emma shushed her, struggled to rein her in. “Shhhh! I know! Shhhh! But… oh, God, Emma, that’s so great…!”

“Stop it!” Emma hissed, and Amy released her, sitting back in her chair and straightening her scrub top.

“Sorry, sorry,” Amy cleared her throat. “Subject dropped, it’s nothing, we don’t have to talk about it anymore.” She pushed her chair down the line of computers with a businesslike air, sniffing smartly as she used the keyboard in front of her to open her own charts. “But Em?” She shot the dark-haired nurse a sidelong glance, a twinkle in her eye. “If it turns out to be something…”

“Amy…” Emma’s eyes were glued to her screen, her tone full of warning.

“Nothing, right… nothing…”

The remainder of her shift passed quickly, and in relative peace; still, Emma found herself edgy and unsettled as she swiped her badge at the time clock. She fidgeted with her keys the entire trek from the floor to the garage, then stared down the clouded anxiety she saw reflected back at her in the rearview mirror as she played that last memory over again in her mind: his eyes locked with hers, his hand on her throat, his breath in her mouth.

_My beautiful Emmaline…_

That goodbye had come more than a week before, and while the time she’d spent in its wake had ticked by easily enough, Emma still had no idea exactly what to do about arranging another hello. It didn’t surprised her at all when, once again, Adam never arrived for his Thursday night appointment with Dr. Gabriel. Nor did it surprise her when he didn’t arrive any other night that she was on duty either. She might have wondered, worried that it was all a dream, if not for the small silvery blemishes at her neck and wrist which she discreetly covered with a long-sleeve t-shirt beneath her uniform top. She might have questioned the connection that tethered her to him like a livewire, if not for the dark and delicious dreams he brought to her every time she closed her eyes.

If not for the song she heard echoing through her brain, as clearly as her own steady breathing.

Finally home; suspicious amber eyes narrowed at her from the back of the sofa as she let herself in her front door. “Hey there, Nem…”

The portly feline turned his head disdainfully away, rising up and arching in a contemptuous stretch. “Oh, for God’s sake, you fat old grump,” Emma groaned as he hopped to the floor and sauntered away to show her his back from the nook between her bookshelf and the balcony door. “I was only gone for three days!” The animal lifted a paw to his mouth and began to groom with an aloof, fuck-you detachment and Emma rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Fine. But if you think you’re gonna get one more can of tuna being a dick like that, you’ve got another thing coming.” She crossed to the pantry to snag the bag of dry cat food, watched him ignore the metallic rattle of the kibble filling the bowl in favor of working a knot out of his fur. “Asshole.”

Nemesis gave his tail a final scrape of his tongue, flicked it lazily her direction, then sauntered over to the door that opened to the tiny concrete patio at the back of the apartment. He turned his head on his shoulder, and offered his mistress a brief, contempt-filled yowl. “Oh, now you need something from me, eh?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, maybe if you could drop some of the ‘go fuck yourself’ attitude…”

As if bored, the animal yawned hugely before rising up on his hind legs to dig his front claws into the molding of the door frame, scratching at the enameled paint

“Hey, hey, hey!” Emma squawked, stumbling hastily to the door and throwing it open. “Keep that up and I’ll haul your fat ass to the vet and let him pluck ‘em out, one by one, I don’t care how cruel they say it is.” The cat sauntered past her with a self-satisfied “ _mrowr_ ”, hopping onto the chaise lounge and curling up on the cushion in the small patch of morning sun. “I ought to lock you out…” Emma muttered, making sure the litter in the box was clean and the water dish was full before trudging into her bedroom. Ten minutes later, scrubs shed to the laundry bin, hair down, teeth brushed, she collapsed into the embrace of her bed with a groan. As she curled around her pillow, her eyes lit on the ghostly pinprick at her wrist, and she traced a fingertip over the tiny divot.

“Adam,” she whispered to the dark of the room. “I miss you…”

**********

For the first time since her blood had first tickled his tongue, the sun was already well below the horizon when Adam blinked his eyes open. His mouth was dry, his neck stiff and sore, and it took him a moment to gather his bearings. He was sprawled on the sofa in the loft, one long arm and one long leg dangling off the edge, the slight, comforting weight of the mandolin draped across his stomach. The dim bulb in the corner lamp had burned out, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, and the needle of the nearby turntable hiccupped tiny bursts of static as it bumped into the smooth center of the vinyl LP that spun lazily beneath it. Setting the instrument delicately aside, he sat up, swiping a hand over his face and sighing heavily as realization slowly dawned.

For the first time since her blood had first tickled his tongue, he was thirsty.

Grabbing his shirt from the arm of the sofa, he rose with a weary sigh, pushing his arms through the sleeves. A waft of sweet orchid still lingered in the cotton, and the corner of his mouth curled in the sparest hint of a grin when his cock twitched briefly in his jeans.

 _You do_ not _miss her._

“Of course not,” he muttered to the empty air as he crossed to turn the record player off, lifting the Billie Holiday album from the platform with reverent care and sliding it back into its protective cardboard cover. Tucking it onto the shelf, he scruffed a hand through his hair before crossing to the bedroom. Her scent was stronger here: soft skin, sweat-dampened hair, and the slightest trace of the honeyed copper of her blood. It made his stomach twist with a hungry ache, and he wasted little time digging his flask from the pocket of his discarded dressing gown.

_Should open the windows. The nights are cooling… the place could use a good airing-out._

He pushed back the heavy curtain to gaze out at the night. No moon overhead, very few stars. It made the light of the Austin skyline, miles away, seem brighter beyond the wall of trees whose branches muttered softly on the evening breeze. Setting his jaw, he turned slowly to head down the stairs.

Three untapped cylinders in the fridge. The sight should have reassured him, filled him with an air of calm satisfaction. But as he unscrewed the cap of the first, upending it to transfer the dark, rich serum to the burnished silver flagon in his hand, he felt little more than mild irritation. Once topped, he set it aside to warm a bit, reaching for the cordial glass collecting dust beside the sink. Wiping it clean with his shirttail, he poured a shot before returning the thermos to its spot beside the others. He opened the back door, leaned in the jamb, and closed his eyes as the scent of oaky sap and the midnight song of the cicadas washed over him.

_It really is better this way. There’s safety in routine. Decades and decades with barely a hiccup, all because you trust the routine._

A quiet rustling in the scrub at the tree line, a pair of dark and inquisitive eyes peeking out from behind a tuft of dried devilgrass. Adam thought of the bread quietly moldering in its plastic bag on the counter across the room, but before he could even decide whether or not to fetch it, a lone yipping howl echoed on the wind, and the curious visitor scurried back into the depths of the brush.

_Smart creature. You could take a lesson…_

With a scoff, Adam lifted the glass to his lips and drank. The cool fluid slid easily over his tongue, settled into his palate, and he closed his eyes, wincing ever so slightly in disappointment. Flat, stale, almost bitter. Even the wave of vitality that surged within him was shallow, less of a bang and more of a whimper, and he scowled angrily at the sky as he thought...

 _Do not be ridiculous. You’d never find her_.

Even as the words whispered through his brain, he knew they weren’t true. All it took was a step away from the house, into the yard, and he could feel it. The inexplicable tug that drew his gaze to the northwest, to the muted silvery glow beyond the leafy crowns of the trees. Whirling with a snarl, he stomped back up the porch steps, his grip on the glass in his hand nearly snapping the delicate stem from the bowl. He yanked the knob above the rusted kitchen sink, taking a vicious sip of pleasure from the belching gasp that coughed from the pipes before the water began to flow. He swiped his finger along the graceful dip of the crystal, rinsing the last of shot from the glass, staring morosely at the thin scarlet thread that swirled down the drain.

_Even if you could find her, it’s still far too dangerous. Someone would see, someone would take notice._

He tossed his head with a hostile scoff, setting the flute aside and turning to mount the stairs. “If there were someone close enough to notice,” he grumbled beneath his breath, “she never would have come… let alone stay…”

_You don’t know that that’s true! Thick-skulled and stubborn curiosity is not the same thing as discretion and you bloody well know it! Besides, spending hour after_ _hour cocooned in a haze of light-headed sex and sleep is a far cry from life in reality. How do you know, now that she’s back where she belongs, that she’s not simply thankful that she survived? That she’s not counseling herself that what happened here was a misguided adventure, an aborted tragedy, a nightmare to be filed away and forgotten?_

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he gazed across the room at the wall where he’d pinned her that very first night. He could still see the embers of dread and desire burning in the depths of her mossy green eyes, smell the luscious blend of fear and fascination leaking from her pores, hear the pleading invitation that hammered in her pulse beneath his hand on her delicate throat. The same sour hunger that had plagued him then again twisted his mouth around his dry tongue, the newly reawakened flame of desire stretching its arms outward from the hollow of his gut.

_The risk… it’s immeasurable… why? Why would you dare?_

His pace was slow and steady as he crossed the room to where the Gretsch reclined against the back of the sofa. He closed his hands around the neck, steadying himself by sinking into the sensations long ago locked inside the smooth, polished wood. He could hear, ever so faintly, the twangy echo of the strings ringing through the tiny room of a Phoenix recording studio, could smell the filtered smoke of Lucky Strikes. And yet, when he closed his eyes, behind his lids, it was her that he found - soft, sleepy, supple. The way her hair spilled past her shoulders, tumbled over her brow. The way her nimble little fingers groped at his lapels and clutched at his shoulders. The way the rosebud of her mouth blossomed in search of his kiss.

The absolute calm and capitulation that smoothed her features as she turned her head, stretched her neck in silent offering.  


“Emmaline…”

How her lips had curled at the sound of her name, how her body had settled so comfortably against his, lying bare and beautiful and utterly unguarded. How she had flowed into him, memories of smiles and sunlight, of beaches and bunkbeds, of dandelions and daydreams. How holding her and hearing her breathe had somehow uncovered and incorporated a singular thread of subtle promise into the somber melody he’d been drawing from the depths of his brain like ore from a well-shrouded mine.

His fingers were moving over the buttons of his shirt, his feet finding their way into his broken down motorcycle boots before he was even aware he was moving again. The slamming of a door, the twist of a key, and the Jaguar purred to life, drowning out the nagging buzz between his ears. Easing the car from behind the house and onto the dirt road, he aimed the headlights towards the muted radiance on the horizon. It occurred to him briefly that it felt a bit of a relief to finally follow that pull that he’d been ignoring for longer than he cared to admit, and his eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he rolled down the window, sniffed the air.

_Ah, to hunt. One never truly forgets how…_

He chuckled briefly as he released the brake, and stepped smoothly on the gas.

“My… delicious… Emmaline…”

************

“Adam…”

His name was on her lips as her eyes blinked sleepily open, and that was enough for her. Throwing the linens aside with a determined grunt, Emma swung her feet to the floor and grimaced in satisfaction as her back crackled beneath her arching stretch. She swept her t-shirt over her head and tossed it towards the hamper before rising, heading towards the bathroom when a _scritch-scritch-scritch_ on the window screen turned her head on her neck.

“Oh, shit… Nem…”

Snagging her short silk robe from her bedpost and wriggling her arms through the sleeves, she padded out to the living room, throwing the balcony door open with an impatient sigh. The tabby looked up at her with disinterest, yawning as she popped her hand to her hip. “Uh, excuse me, your highness… in or out?” The cat stood, arched, and almost as an afterthought, wound sleekly through her legs as he sauntered into the apartment. “Keep your olive branch,” she scoffed, letting the door swing shut as she hurried back to her room. “You very well could be on your own again tonight.”

Once in the bathroom, she leaned over and twisted the knob of the tub well into the red before snagging her toothbrush from the cup by the sink. Once the paste was a minty foam over her teeth and tongue, she scrutinized her reflection in the mirror. The red in her hair was fading; it only took a moment to dig the bottle of autumn orange from amongst the others in her cabinet. A flick of her tweezers over each brow and, satisfied, she stepped into the warm and welcoming water.

She couldn’t remember the last time her grooming rituals had included the pleasant, persistent throb of anticipation that now vibrated through her brain and belly. Hair treated, she wrapped it in a towel as she scrubbed her face, smoothed a razor over her skin. Her fingertips lingered over the imperfections at her neck, her wrists, the inside of her thigh, and she shivered as she remembered the sting of his fangs, the stroke of his lips and tongue, the lingering taste of her blood in his kiss. Closing her eyes, she pressed her hand to the center of the small patch of curls between her legs, sighing his name as she arched into the sensation.

“Adam…”

_Emmaline…_

Her head snapped up on her neck, her eyes widening as she realized she didn’t so much hear the word as she felt it. _Sotto voce_ , a tickle beneath her skin, the thrill of gravity tugging at the hollow of her belly as if she’d stepped from a cliff’s edge to plummet into a dangerous yet delightful unknown. Suddenly impatient, she yanked the stopper from the drain and rose with a fragrant splash, seizing a thick terrycloth towel and winding it around her. Grabbing her hairbrush, she began to untangle her newly decorated locks, smiling in satisfaction before pulling open the bathroom door.

The brush hit the floor with a clatter that drowned out her breathy gasp when she nearly collided with him just beyond the doorway.

Her eyes were wide and clear as she stood rooted to her spot, tendrils of water tickling their way down her legs, diamond drops falling from the ends of her hair to be swallowed silently by the carpet. Her breath came in quick little puffs that danced between her slightly parted lips and her skin pebbled with goosebumps as she took in the sight of him. Pale and perfect, his dark curls swallowed the subdued light of her soft overhead bulbs, tiny hints of gingery fire burning in a stray strand here and there. His thin lips were drawn in a droll, knowing smirk, his long and lanky body postured cool and commanding in dark cotton and denim. He let his eyes crawl down her form to the tip of her manicured toes, then back up once more to the blaze-colored streaks in her dark, dripping hair.

Long moments they stood, staring one another down in the strangely comfortable silence, neither moving, neither speaking. Then, slowly, Adam drew a deep breath in through his nose, and Emma watched in fascination as the icy blue of his irises was swallowed by flowing tendrils of inky black. With impeccable grace, he extended his arm, catching her gently around the waist and pulling her close, until she was pressed against him, torso to torso. His fingers wound around her left hand and he lifted her arm, draping it over his shoulder, around his neck. His smirk widened just a bit, and she could see his incisors honed to needle-fine points. With a small, seductive smile, she titled her head, offering him the most inviting angle of her throat.

He quirked an eyebrow, then lifted her right wrist to his mouth. She barely flinched as ivory broke skin, then stared hypnotized at the thin scarlet thread that began to slide down her arm. Adam watched as well, regal and reverent, before extending his tongue and tracing the line back to the source. Closing his lips around the blemish, he suckled for a heartbeat before lifting his head once more. The tiny wound was already closed when the faint coppery taste of herself flooded her palate from his tongue, and Emma closed her eyes with a blissful sigh.

When she opened them again, she was naked in his arms, her towel discarded somewhere between the bathroom and the unmade bed. Her back was pressed into the mattress as he covered her with his body, his kisses slow and measured, but deep and demanding. The eternal midnight of his eyes was now shot through with tiny veins of red and Emma shivered at the sight. Leisurely, his mouth left hers to grope its way along the curve of her jaw, down to the tender flesh in the hollow beneath her ear. She gasped as he bit at her, but it only took a heartbeat to realize the nip came from straight, even teeth, his fangs retracted in spite of his visually obvious hunger. Another nibble to the dip where her neck met her shoulder, a firmer bite to the shoulder itself, and then a mildly stinging scrape over the length of her clavicle. A kiss to the hollow of her throat, and he continued along to the other side, exploring and tasting, nipping and nuzzling in equal measure.

She was trembling when the tip of his nose caressed its way along the curve of her breast, his eyes locked with hers as his cool breath pebbled her dark, blushing nipple to an achingly hard point. Her tongue mirrored his, flicking against her trembling lips as he teased the pert little bud before suckling it leisurely into his mouth. Her fingers caressed the silky softness of his curls, and she swallowed hard when he bit down, careful but firm, tugging at her until her head fell back on her neck in delight. From that breast to its twin, then down along her ribcage, bite after bite sending tiny sparks of playful pain dancing through her beneath her skin. The hollow of her belly, the pouty little swell beneath her navel, the plumped lips of her cunt, the curve of each hip. She pulled at his hair in her hands, silently beckoning him north once more; he slipped her grip easily and leisurely continued his exploration down the landscape of her trembling legs.

He paused to suck a violet kiss into the tender flesh inside her ankle before nudging her over onto her stomach, scraping his teeth over the toned curves of her calves. Curling her arms around her pillow, Emma buried her face in its downy depths as he crawled slowly higher, and higher. He left matching rings of teeth on each buttock, growled into the skin at the base of her spine. By the time he’d moved her onto her side, his length spooned against her, she was gasping, incoherent with need. She shuddered at quiet clink of the metal of his belt, the soft purr of his zipper. One strong hand slid over her hip and down, catching the inside of her thigh and pulling her leg back, opening her to him. Her eyes rolled drunkenly in her skull as he nudged the cool head of his cock along her slit, her ass pushing back against him in silent, urgent plea. His teeth worried a bruise into the nape of her neck as he continued to rub his shaft between her dripping lips, teasing them both, determined to be warmed by and wet with her nectar before sinking into her.

She was trembling violently when he took her at last, her lips parting in a soundless scream as he filled her with one easy, sensual roll. Still gripping her thigh, his other arm snaked around her shoulders, his fingers closing gentle but firm around her throat. She hooked her own hands up and over the tensed muscle of his forearm, moaning softly as her body undulated to the rhythm he breathed into her hair in harsh, hungry bursts. Burying his face in the damp, fragrant depths, Adam smiled to himself before closing his eyes, allowing the waves of sensation to draw him deeper, and deeper still.

Behind his lids, he found brilliant blue sky, dotted with white cotton candy puffs of springtime clouds. He could smell the heavy butter of kettle popped corn, the powder-sugared sweetness of fried pastry, the juicy spiciness of roasting turkey and sausage. He could feel the warmth of April sun on his face, the tickle of the breeze in the sweat-dampened hair at his temples. His head filled with the metallic sound of wheels and gears on a track, the pit of his stomach tipped crazily at the sensation of being ratcheted higher, higher, and higher still. He could hear her breathless giggle, her squeal of “Ethan!” when the view shifted from skyward to the rickety wooden plunge below.

And then she was falling, flying, taking him with her. His hips snapped against her, harder, faster, and the sound of her rushing blood as her head fell to the side brought him back. He cupped her chin in his palm, stretching her neck as the fingers of his other hand dipped to find and fondle the small, swollen pearl of her clit. “”Now, Emmaline,” he groaned, thrusting deep, grinding against her cervix. “Now…”

She tensed from the crown of her scalp to the tips of her toes, vibrating and convulsing around him as wave after wave of electric intensity sent her pleasure weeping from every pore, gushing from between her legs. And as he spilled himself against that barrier within her, his fangs struck quick and true, and she sang his name to the silence around them as she flowed, hot and honeyed, over his lips and tongue. He drank deep, his hand between her legs ensuring that her orgasm surged on and on, until her blood was sweetly saturated with endorphins. His own brain began to spin from the intoxicating rush and he released her, his palm cradling her head as her spent and shaking form went limp against him.

“Adam,” her whisper was soft, slurred. “I missed you.”

He smirked against her skin, the tip of his tongue catching the last tiny trickles of crimson that escaped from the clotting pinpricks beneath her ear.

“My sweet Emmaline,” he sighed, his arms tightening around her.   “I missed you…”


	12. Chapter 12

“How in the hell do you abide that mangy flea-bitten beast?”

Emma grinned at the irritation in Adam’s droll mumble, pulling his arm more snugly around her and wriggling back into his chest before nudging the bundle of perturbed orange fur at her feet with her toes. The feline flattened his ears and narrowed his amber eyes, a low mutter of annoyance rumbling from his throat. Still, he remained curled at the bottom of the bed, flicking his tail in sharp whip cracks, refusing to give even an inch of ground to the couple he clearly believed were intruding in his space. “He’s not mangy,” she insisted, “or flea-bitten! I take very good care of that beast, thank you very much.”

“He’s certainly not missing any meals,” Adam sniffed, glaring coolly at the portly animal from over his mistress’ bare shoulder.

Emma turned her head on her neck, quirking an impish eyebrow as she dusted her lips against his. “Well,” she purred sweetly, “neither are you.” She giggled at his responding growl, squealed as he bit down on her soft, pale flesh. “You should have seen him when I found him. Skin and bones, a couple of bald spots on his back and haunches. He was always sneaking around my old neighbor’s back porch because she’d put out food for the strays. Pissed the people in the leasing office off something fierce.” She shivered a little as Adam continued to nip and nibble at the skin and sinew of her shoulder, his absent hum doing little to assure her he was actually listening. “I’d see him all the time, but he’d bolt if I took so much as a step his direction.”

“Mmm,” she closed her eyes as his hands pulled her hair aside, his tongue flickering briefly over the tender skin at the top of her spine. “Should have let him go.”

“Oh, I did,” Emma mused quietly, “until the day I nearly squished him with my car.”

The gentle affection from behind stuttered, stopped, and it was clear from the tone of his mumbled “What?” that he resented being drawn into her narrative, even if only a little.

“Yep,” she sighed heavily. “I guess he tangled with something bigger, stronger, or at least hungrier. He was battered and bloody, his ear all mangled, punctures all over his chest and back. He was hiding under my front tire trying to clean himself up.” She shuddered, but her lips curled in a secret smile when Adam’s embrace tightened ever so briefly. “If I hadn’t dropped my keys…”

As if he understood her monologue, Nemesis rose briefly, yawning and arching his back before taking a step closer, then another, plopping down across the arch of her foot with an audible _whump_ , his chin coming to rest on her ankle. “We got you fixed up though, didn’t we, fatass?” Her voice was warm with fondness. “He’s been on cricket and scorpion watch ever since.” She turned to look at Adam once more. “So, see? He’s not mangy. He’s a scrapper… a survivor.” Her tone dropped, softened as she gazed into his blue eyes. “I like that.”

Adam tilted his head ever so slightly, the tip of his nose just grazing hers. “Do you, now?” She nodded, and after a long moment of silence, his hand under her chin nudged her mouth to his. They indulged in a few soft open-mouthed kisses, their eyes never closing, their gaze never breaking, until Emma was overtaken by a huge, head-splitting yawn. Adam exhaled a small chuckle, shifting her in his arms until she was cradled warmly in the pillows. “You should sleep.”

A tiny whine escaped her throat, her fingers reaching up to tangle in his curls. “You’re not tired…”

Adam’s expression pinched briefly. “What has one to do with the other?” She pouted at him cutely, undaunted by the shift of his shoulders or the roll of his eyes. “Emmaline, if we’re to continue, you must mind your health. Otherwise, there’s little point…

She furrowed her brow and twisted her mouth into a moue of displeasure before clicking her tongue in resignation. “Okay,” she relented, chewing briefly on her bottom lip before speaking again. “Are you… I mean… will you…?”

Adam looked down on her blankly. “Will I what?”

“I mean,” Emma shifted against the mattress, letting the back of her hand play gently over the sculpted lines of his bare chest. “Are you going to leave?”

His face remained fixed and flat, but a brief flash of fire from deep within his pupils sent a quick dusting of gooseflesh over her body. “Do you want me to leave?”

It was easy for her to keep her eyes leveled on his, to shake her head. “No.”

The corner of his mouth quirked a bit, his leg nudging almost imperceptibly at hers beneath the sheets. “Then I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Emma whispered, sliding her hand up his neck to draw his lips back to hers. He used the cool weight of his body to press her deeper into the mattress, their tongues dancing a sweet, sleepy tango. This time, for this kiss, she did let her lids flutter shut, welcoming the waves of his memory that washed over her. She could hear the lapping of water, smell the splinters of worn, sun-bleached wood. She could feel the cradle of the gondola rocking beneath her, see the diamonds of silver-bright stars dotting the black tapestry of the Venetian midnight overhead. “Adam...” she sighed, already adrift.

_Sleep, sweet Emmaline. Sleep… I’ll take you there..._

Her mind’s eye opened, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and she gasped softly at the majesty of the sweeping arches and immaculately sculpted angles of the buildings that drifted by. Their stone edifices seemed to glow in the dark, lit as much by the souls that resided within as the low burning lanterns that flickered without. She could hear the echoing clunk and clatter as windows were shuttered against the cooling night, and the splash of the gondolier’s paddle as it cut the water in a random, lazy pattern. She exhaled a breathy sigh, adjusted her weight against the overstuffed pillows at her back, then turned her attention back to the constellations that swirled overhead.

Her hand fell to caress smooth glass at her side, her fingers wrapping around the neck of an elegant bottle and lifting it to her lips. Only a mouthful, the buttery cognac burned a pleasant path to her belly and wrapped a warm blanket of mellow haze around her brain. Tracing the twinkling lines from the mother bear to her cub with her eyes, she began to hum softly, a familiar melody she’d never heard before. Lilting, secret and sweet, it skipped from her tongue like rain pattering on a window, rising and falling on the rhythm of her own relaxed respirations.

_Fickle. Flat._

She scowled briefly at the reverberating voice inside her head before starting anew, breathing a bit deeper and humming a bit louder. In her imagination, her voice a violin, weeping sound from beneath the firm, guiding hands of its master.

_Too simple… too shallow… damn!_

She’d have brushed the nagging noise away with her hand like a troublesome fly if she could have, but there was no escaping it. It grumbled between her ears as clear as the notes dancing along the surface of her brain, and just as determined to be heard. Sitting up with a huff, she took another tiny tug from the bottle at her right before reaching down and finding the sculpted wood of the guitar at her left. A big bellied Spaniard, it settled into her lap, and a moment later, her fingers were pressing and plucking with practiced ease. The sound was rich and robust, a thunderhead passing in front of the sun, carrying its weight without spilling a drop. Ten bars, twelve, fifteen…

_No, no, no… A minor… heavy on the left hand. C… now C sharp… slow it down just a tick… there we are. Lovely._

As the harmony spilled from the strings beneath her fingers, warmed by the deep bowl of the instrument, she began to hum again, weaving the two lines together into a silken braid of sound that echoed through the aquatic alleyway with serpentine grace. She felt tears stinging her eyes as he let her live his happiness, filling her with the beauty of his creation before pushing it from her and into the presence of his past. Over and over, line after line, a little change here, a subtle variation there. She winced a bit at the temporary pinch and burn in her neck, adjusted her posture, and played on. Phrase after phrase, she could actually feel the music dancing over her skin until slowly, blessedly, the coda drifted weightlessly from her fingertips. She lifted her hands from the instrument, letting its final note vibrate richly into silence before casting her head back for one long, last look at the Italian night sky before surrendering to the deeper black of calm, comforting sleep.

Opening her eyes hours later, she smiled into the darkness that looked and felt more her own: the lazily spinning blades of the ceiling fan, their chuffing whispers breezing over her cheeks, the soft embrace of her bed linens, the orchid and plum scent of her sachet. And as the curtain of sleep retreated and her head cleared, she could almost hear it – the electric hum in the air that reassured her she was not alone. Sighing contentedly, she rolled languidly onto her side, only to frown a bit when she realized the space beside her in the bed was empty. Blinking in mild disappointment, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, blowing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Adam?”

His only reply was the scratch of graphite on paper, and her expression relaxed as her sight adjusted to the dim. He was seated at her tiny desk, his head bent over a pile of her stationary. Deeply engrossed in his work, his hands moved with fluid grace, pausing every so often to tap out a rhythm on the tabletop. Exhaling a tiny laugh through her nose, Emma slipped her bare feet to the floor and crept naked to his side. She reached carefully past him to switch on the small work lamp, jumping just a bit at the hiss that dusted through his teeth, soothing her hands across his shoulders as he winced against the invading brightness. “Sorry,” she whispered softly into his curls and thinking, not for the first time, that the gingery depths were becoming easier and easier to see, winking silently from within the strands of black.

A grunt of indifference; the pencil never stuttered against the page.

Unable to stop herself, Emma leaned close, watching the notes and rests and sharps and flats emerge from beneath his hand. It did not surprise her at all to realize he was scripting the song from her dream and she rested her cheek against his temple, humming the harmony into his ear. He gave her a brief nudge, an affectionate but undeniable dismissal, and she softly kissed his cheek. “I’m a sweaty, sticky mess… I’m just gonna hop in the shower…”

Another grunt, even briefer than the one before.

Spinning silently on her toes, she padded towards the bathroom, wriggling her shoulders against the nagging itch that spidered across her back. Picking up her brush from where she’d dropped it, she snagged a clip from the stash beside her hairdryer, whipping her still damp locks into a makeshift bun atop her head. Nemesis watched her aloofly from his perch on the toilet tank; narrowing her eyes at him, she reached over and twisted the sink’s cold water tap just a bit. With a bored-sounding meow, the animal stretched languidly before sidling over to drink from the slowly dripping faucet. Emma lay her hand on his head, scratching gently behind his mangled ear; he grumbled brief complaint low in his throat but did not pull away. “You’d better be nice to me, fatass,” she chided as she turned to pull the shower door open and twist the knob into the red, “or else, one of these days, I’ll give you a burnt tongue.”

Flicking his tail in disapproval, the cat sauntered purposefully across the countertop; Emma laughed at the sound of several of her cosmetics and sundries hitting the floor in his wake. “Pout all you want, Nem, I’m kinda hoping this one sticks around for…” The words died on her lips as she glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. “Oh… my God…” Steam began to billow in the air as she backed toward the image, her eyes wide with wonder.

Her entire back, from the graceful lines of her neck and shoulders to the curving dips above her buttocks, was covered in the same notes and phrases he’d played in her head, the same sensual and somber opus he was scribbling on the pages just a few feet away.

His cunning creation sprawling across her skin, written in her blood.

Reaching back over one shoulder, arching and stretching, she watched the music undulate, seeming to dance across her flesh in time with the fluid motion of her muscles. She traced a fingertip over the delicate flag of an eighth note, tapped the melody that followed against her shoulder blade, squirming again as the itch of its presence buzzed beneath her skin. She traced every line with her eyes, glanced regretfully at the warm, whispering spray that waited for her across the room. “So beautiful,” she breathed, almost mournfully.

_It’s made it to page, Emmaline…_

His voice in her head as she scratched her nails against the base of her spine. “But…”

_Oh, just wash it off, for fuck’s sake!_

Her eyebrows shot up at how clearly his exasperation echoed between her ears, and she pushed herself towards the shower with a mild scoff. “Fine,” she muttered, stepping under the cascade. “Bossy…” Filling her hands with fragrant soap, she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of her palms slipping easily over the lines of her throat, the curves of her breasts, the pebbled peaks of her nipples.

_Mmmmm… very nice…_

Her lids popped open with a gasp, and she felt herself flush crimson as the punctuating chuckle tickled its way through her brain. The bathroom door was still closed and she was certain, should she open it, she would see him still seated in the small circle of light at her desk, still feverishly scribbling lines of music across pale pink paper. And yet…

With an impish grin, she slid her touch down over her body, shivering as her fingers rippled their way over her ribcage. She traced a line of tiny bubbles around the dip of her navel, then reached lower, brushing her fingertips over the soft dusting of fine, dark curls that descended into the vee between her legs. His voice vibrated through her, an inarticulate growl, and she giggled softly to herself. Another few strokes of soap over skin and, with a tiny sigh of regret she turned, feeling the pelting flow of the water against her spine, watching the scarlet traces of his masterpiece swirl gracefully down the drain.

Her short silk robe still hung on the hook beside the tub; she tied it snugly around her waist after a quick rubdown, the diamond drops of water on her skin bleeding into the pink and red rosebuds scattered across the creamy landscape. Draping her towel over the rack, she twisted the knob quietly, pulling the door slowly open. As she suspected, he was still seated at the desk in the corner. But his long, lanky form was no longer hunkered over, spilling inspiration across paper. Asprawl in the chair, spent and content in the wake of his completed composition, his head lolled back on his neck, the fingers of his right hand plucking absently at the air as their counterparts on his left tapped rhythmically at his denim clad thigh. His eyes were closed, his jaw slightly ajar, the light shining golden on his bare chest, the smallest tuft of silky curls winking from his open fly.

No hold over her at all, no mystical elusive pull. But her mouth was watering all the same.

She knew his preternaturally keen senses were impossible to elude, but she tiptoed anyway, crossing the floor in reverent silence. His hand rose from his leg as she approached; she slipped her fingers into the cool expanse of his palm as she crossed to stand in front of him. His gaze was sleepy and satisfied as it danced its way from the top of her head down the curves of her body, then back up again. Her smile was impish and inviting as she sank to her knees in front of him, crossing her arms over his thighs and propping her chin on her wrists. “I’m really glad you’re still here.”

The air of almost buoyant serenity still surrounded him, yet his carefully constructed expression remained infuriatingly impassive as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of autumn orange that had escaped the clip behind her ear. “You are, eh?” he asked, actually sounding a bit bored. She nodded, her teeth closed adorably on her lower lip, and he chucked her briefly under the chin as he leaned back in the chair, his head quirking in a “come hither” nod. “Why don’t you come up here and show me?”

Her teasing giggle skittered warmly across his stomach as her hands found their way to his hips, curling deliberately into the waistband of his jeans. “I bet I can show you from right where I am…”

“Oh, you can, can you?” His words stuttered ever so slightly as he pushed himself up, giving her just enough room to slide the denim down his legs, swallowing hard against the sensual scrape of her nails against his skin. Once his pants had been tossed unceremoniously aside, she scooted a bit closer, resting her head against one thigh as her warm palm slid, slowly and deliberately, along the inside of the other. He swallowed hard as her fingertips grazed the sensitive flesh of his scrotum, his balls hitching reflexively at the contact, and his breath hissed quietly through his teeth as her lips curled in a galling grin of self-satisfaction. “Emmaline…” he growled darkly.

“Shhhh,” she turned the pucker of her mouth to the taut muscle beneath her cheek, used her grip on his calf to pull him into a deeper recline against the chair. She could see the black of his pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes, the flutter of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, and she exhaled warm, damp air against his skin before turning her attention fully to his cock.

He was swelling rapidly in front of her, his blushing crown just beginning to nudge itself free from his foreskin. She met it with parted lips, kissing tenderly, marveling at the cold smoothness that stretched and strained to meet her touch. Her hand continued its trek north to the valley between his legs, her palm cupping the fragile flesh, her fingers probing gently but curiously at the curving weight beneath the thin, soft skin. She could feel his eyes, knew he was watching her with a burning intensity, and she paused briefly to wonder how long it had been since he’d been touched, explored, appreciated in such a manner.

_Ohhh, my dear…_ His velvety chuckle echoed through her brain. _Far, far too long…_

“Well,” she purred softly, her eyes narrowing playfully as he stared her down, “I’d best take my time, then…”

Adam’s face curled in a frustrated snarl as she continued to dance her lips over him, feather-light contact that made him want to fist her hair, to buck and grind against her. She dusted chaste kisses up over the top his awakening shaft, higher and higher, until she could bury her nose in the curls at his pelvis, her nails scratching over his hips in a delicious contrast of sensation. Then she descended just as slowly, her parted lips making room for quick, delicate flickers of her wet, nimble tongue along the heavy vein that ran the underside of his length. He was just about to put his hands on her shoulders, to push her firmly to her back and kick the chair away, to cover her body with his. And then, after a sweet sigh whispered from her throat and her eyelids dipped in a coquettish blink, the floor tilted beneath him as her grasp closed deliberately around his girth, the heat of her mouth enveloping him in a luscious wave that sapped his strength and loosed his voice from deep in his chest. “Fucking hell… Emmaline…”

The chill of him against her tongue made her shiver in delight, and she lapped at him in hungry fascination as her warmth bled into him, as the tart and silvery tang of his precum dripped lazily across her palate. She hollowed her cheeks in a brief, tugging suck, her grip around the base of his cock tightening ever so slightly, making his hips hitch and roll against the chair. Another pull, and she could hear the creak of the wood as his head fell back on his neck, the air of his silent groan drifting to the ceiling. It sent a tingling, aching surge of desire sparking through her own still sensitive folds, and she mewled softly against his skin. The sound vibrated through him, making him suck in air in surprise, and she smiled, releasing him with an audible pop and pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot beneath his crown.

His head snapped upright once more, his hand finding and fisting the hair at the back of her head. “Don’t you dare tease,” he snarled, “you brazen little brat.”

“Oh, Adam, relax,” she cooed, elated and encouraged. “You wanted me to show you,” she tilted her head, the gesture deceptively innocent. “Let me show you.”

His angry retort died on his lips as she drew him in once more, the angle of her neck rubbing him just right against the roof of her mouth. His fingers tightened reflexively in her hair, on the arm of the chair, and he growled roughly through gritted teeth at her melodic moan of approval. She let her own teeth drag gently over him as she withdrew, stoking the lines of fire they left on his skin with firm strokes of her tongue before plunging again, and again, and again. Each drive lasted a little bit longer than the one before, took him deeper, until her full bottom lip rubbed gently against the sensitive flesh at his root, the tip of her nose brushing the taut muscle of his stomach. He held her still against him, flexing into her with brief, hitching pumps of his hips until tears bit at the corners of her eyes, her chest burning with effort by the time he let her retreat. He watched her with a dark and desirous awe as she filled her lungs with greedy gulps of air, recovering just enough to attack him once more.

Over and over, her mouth rising and falling in wet, wonderful sweeps, the scent of her own blossoming arousal filling the air around them with a heady perfume. Adam skirted the line between sway and surrender, taking her and giving himself in as equal a measure as he could manage, her name falling from his mouth in mingled praise and curse. And just as the white hot coil of his pleasure began spiral out from that tingling spot at the base of his spine, he bolted upright, tilting her head back and closing his hand around hers. He guided her grasp in slow, measured squeezes, milking his release into her open and waiting mouth as his own spilled his pleasure in coarse, gasping grunts. He tasted of metal and moonlight, mercurial and mellow, and she trembled as she swallowed him down, lapping at the remnants that dripped down his shaft before catching him between her lips once more, tenderly suckling every last drop as he slumped, shocked and sated, back into the chair.

She’d imagined long moments of sweet afterglow, his body quivering like livewire as she rested her cheek against his hip, playing her lips against his waning length, tickling her fingers over the muscles of his calves. So her breath left her in a small, surprised shriek when, after only a heartbeat or two, his hands grabbed her in a grip like iron, hauling her up into his lap as his eyes blazed into hers. “Clever girl,” he hissed before catching her mouth in a biting kiss. His right arm snaked around her body as his left hand dipped below her waist; he swallowed her scream of agonized ecstasy as he drove two fingers up between her wet, willing folds. “Such a talent… so proud of yourself…” He twisted his touch inside her, seeking and stroking the swollen ridge that made her buck and twist in his embrace. “You played me well, sweet Emmaline,” he breathed into the suddenly damp, sweaty curve of her neck. “Now it’s _my_ turn…”

Her arms fluttered weakly around him, her hands raking over his bare back as he pushed and probed, teased and tormented. His free hand reached up to pluck the clip from her hair, and it swept down around them in an aromatic avalanche, a thick curtain to contain the soft, squeaking breaths she exhaled over his open mouth. Before long, she was arching shamelessly above him, her robe falling open, the dim golden light from the lamp reflected in the shimmering sheen that dusted her skin. He waited for her eyes to open, the shining points of his fangs mirrored in the storm-tossed sea of her irises before bending his head. Her fingers slid into his hair, she lifted her breast to his mouth, her breathy gasp at the needle-sharp sting making him shudder with need. Ruby red welled at the tip of her nipple; he watched the drop fatten before extending the tip of his tongue to catch it. Another, a third, and his lips were smeared with scarlet as he closed his mouth over her, scissoring his fingers inside her as his thumb began to tap the rhythm of her release against the swollen bud of her clit.

He was still holding her in the chair when she came back to herself, the silk of her robe pooled at her elbows, her head lolling sleepily on his shoulder. His eyes were clear and calm when she sat up to look into them, his hand still gently cupping her spent and swollen sex. She couldn’t hold back her shy but giddy giggle as he lifted his fingers to his mouth with casual grace, cleaning her nectar from his skin with slow, sensual sucks of his mouth. “You, Sir,” she whispered, nuzzling her nose against his, “should definitely come around more often.”

His eyebrows quirked at his wry, deriding grunt. “I don’t know about that.” He glanced around the room, clearly disquieted by the idea. “This place is too small… these walls are too thin…” His brows stitched together as his gaze met the dim and disapproving amber stare from the cat now sprawled in the center of the bed. “Too many prying eyes…”

Emma laughed, stretched. “Not one for an audience?”

Adam shook his head. “Not one for an audience.”

“Whatever you say, Maestro,” she sighed, rising to her feet with a yawn. She let the silk flutter open around her body as she walked to her closet door, plucking her book from her bag before heading back to her bed. Adam watched with barely piqued interest as she let the garment fall to the floor before sprawling out on the mattress, unceremoniously nudging the cat out of the way. “I’m going to read,” she grinned over her shoulder, sweeping the tangle of her hair aside and offering him the landscape of her bare back. “But you will let me know if inspiration strikes again, won’t you?” Rolling his eyes, Adam turned to the desk, thumbing absently at the pages of music spread before him. Silence hung in the air for long moments before he stole another glance her direction, before he realized she’d fallen through the hole in the page and was now lost in someone else’s story.

With a resigned sigh, he selected a pen from the cup by the lamp, rose from his perch. He stretched out alongside her, drumming the implement morosely against his palm. The threads of the tune hung loose in his memory; closing his eyes, he braided them this way and that, unwinding them, stitching them together in new and different order. Sharps and flats clashed, tempos collided. Then, ever so slowly, the fabric began to take shape, flowing faster, easier, tapestry unfurling from loom spinning in his mind. It was only after a quick shake of his head to clear it that he realized Emma was humming the tune softly, unconsciously, to the pages of her novel.

Sparing a small grin, he lifted the pen. She flinched just a bit as he scribbled the time signature at the edge of her left shoulder, her face turned to his lit by a sweet, secret smile.

“You like this, do you?” he mused as notes dotted her skin.

“Yeah,” her voice was full of childlike satisfaction. “I really do…”


	13. Chapter 13

“Okay, Mando, that ought to do it,” Emma snapped the hospital-issue gown closed over her patient’s shoulder. “Antibiotics done, port clean and closed, and you, sir, will be out of here in the morning.” She fluffed the elderly man’s pillow before bending her knees and wrapping her arms around his waist, helping him shift to a more comfortable position in the bed before snapping her gloves off with a satisfied smile.

“ _Que lástima_!” Hernandez furrowed his grizzled brow, squinting at her in concern. “Miss Emma! What happened to your neck, _guapa_?”

Emma’s face flushed as her hand darted to the flesh beneath the corner of her jaw, her fingertips brushing over the tiny twin still-pink punctures, lingering souvenirs of her vampire’s last vigorous feeding just a few nights prior. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she stammered, catching the cuff of her long-sleeved undershirt and pulling it down past her wrist to cover another pair of the telltale marks.

“Not nothing, _chica_ , that looks like it hurts!”

She patted the worn and leathery skin of his arm, warm but dismissive. “I promise you, Mando, it doesn’t. Not even a little.”

“You got spiders in your attic, you think?” the old man wheezed. “ _Pequeños bastardos sedientos de sangre_ _…_ I got a grandson can root ‘em out easy for you, Miss Emma. He work cheap, too.”

“I live in an apartment, Mando,” Emma squeezed his elbow affectionately. “I don’t have an attic.”

“That don’t mean you don’t got spiders, _niñita._ ” He frowned at her paternally. “You give me your address, I send my grandson to you, okay?”

Chewing on her lip, Emma glanced through the open door to insure no one passing in the halls would be close enough to overhear. “Okay, Mando,” she leaned close, murmuring in a low conspiratorial voice. “Promise to keep quiet, and I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She waited for the man’s affirming nod. “I’ve been seeing someone for a few months now,” she dropped a silent wink, “and he’s a bit of a biter.”

_“Oy, niñita, usted poco alborotador!_  " He dissolved into a hacking fit of merry chuckles as she rose to exit the room. “You’re playing with fire when you play with an _hombre_ like that…”

“Am I ever, Mando,” she concurred, half under her breath. “Am I ever.”

She was seated comfortably at the nurse’s station, sipping her coffee and clicking away at her keyboard when Marina rounded the desk, chart in hand, to hip-check the back of her chair. A soft trill of excitement tripped off her tongue as she tucked the binder into the rack. _“Mamacita_ , I saw a black bag from Posh hanging in the breakroom… does this mean somebody picked up her dress for the Christopher House gala?”

Emma puckered her lips primly and sniffed soundly. “Maybe.”

Marina lay her hands on the young woman’s shoulders before leaning over and around to look her in the eye. “Does that mean you’re _definitely_ gonna be there?”

Emma bit back her grin, quirking an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

Marina trilled her tongue again, shaking her rump in an excited wiggle. “You are going to have such a good time, Emmaline Rose!   We are gonna eat! We are gonna drink! We are gonna shake our bodacious booties all over that dance floor until every MD in the joint is drooling all over us just to cool us down!”

Emma snorted a sweet-natured scoff. “I don’t know about you, but I’m just going to try to chew my prime rib with my mouth closed and maybe sip a glass of champagne at the bar while praying none of those stuffed suits try to get me on the floor to show the world just how horribly I waltz.”

In the chair next to hers, Amy shook her head with just a hint of bitterness. “Can’t believe you bitches are ditching me on a Friday night.” She shot Emma a sidelong glare. “Running off to be the belles of the ball while I’m stuck here playing Beauty and the bedpan.”

“Aw, girl, lighten up,” Marina gave her short, blonde ponytail a brisk tug. “Emma’s worked every Christmas Eve and Christmas night for – what is it, girl? – five years?” She winked at the dark-haired nurse affectionately. “She deserves a night of dining and debauchery.”

Amy glanced up at the luminous Latina in irritation. “Isn’t Mrs. Marchek’s bedsore due for a dressing change?”

Marina blew a hearty raspberry before turning on her heel. “Be as sour as you want, _puta_ _,_ nothing is bringing my mood down.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Amy sneered, not entirely unkindly, at her retreating back before turning once more to her own computer screen. “So,” she sighed after a few moments of quiet typing. “Posh, huh?”

“Yeah,” Emma affirmed quietly. “It’s been forever… like… since senior prom that I dressed up formal. I figured, what the hell? I’ll splurge a little.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Amy hummed. “And what’s the roadie gonna wear?”

Emma smiled at the affectionate slight with a shake of her head. “He’s not a roadie, Aim…”

“Right, right,” Amy drawled, “he’s a… a what? Sound engineer?”

“Sound engineer…”

“Okay, okay, whatever,” she giggled at the lilt in her friend’s tone. “What’s Mr. Music gonna wear?”

“Mr. Music,” Emma squared her shoulders with just a soupçon of sad resignation, “won’t be there.”

Amy’s mouth twisted in a moue of sympathetic understanding. “Where’s he off to this time? London? Paris? Manhattan?”

Emma snorted again. “Dallas.” It still surprised her a little how quickly and easily the details of her chosen cover story poured from her lips, especially once it had become pointless to deny that there was something to explain.

It wasn’t hard to leave Adam behind when it was time to return to work and responsibility, but it was slowly becoming more and more difficult not to rush to his house and his arms when her duties were done and her time was once again her own. She’d taken to clustering her shifts together, yielding long stretches of days of just the two of them, cloistered in his home, away from the world and all its distractions. He didn’t dote, didn’t simper and serve; in fact, she spent a great deal of time convinced he’d all but forgotten she was there. She would lounge in his bed or enjoy the breeze in his back yard, and she always made certain to have at least one or two books tucked away in her bag. He’d move around her effortlessly, tinkering with his creations of plastic and brass and copper wire, composing, playing, recording; he rarely even perceived her enough to be irritated by her presence. As often as not, when he did notice she was still there, it was with an air of mild surprise. She’d smile and shiver as he drew her close, breathing her in, his eyes dark with desire. They’d fuck, and he’d feed, they’d share the same sensual exchange of memory neither of them seemed to be able to understand or control.

And every time any shadow of doubt would begin to cloud her mind, worrying its way to the pit of her stomach, something would change.

Small, subtle. Like the night she woke to the sound of running water filling the tub through restored plumbing in the dimly lit master bath, the air heavy with floral, fragrant steam. Or the morning she crept quietly into the loft to find him asleep on the sofa and the attic door unlocked and ajar; she’d climbed the narrow staircase to find the rising sun spilling through the circle window onto a feather mattress covered with books - **The Sound and the Fury** , **The French Lieutenant’s Woman** , **Atlas Shrugged** , **Tropic of Cancer** \- and a soft lavender fleece. The coffee pot that appeared on the counter. The orange juice tucked among the cylinders in the fridge.

She bought the cat a state of the art food dispenser, water fountain, and self-cleaning litterbox. Now king of her modest castle, he did seem to miss her a little while she was gone, but she could never be sure.

She should have felt cornered that morning after a shift in early October, when begging off yet another dinner and movie date with Amy drew her ire to a head. The petite blonde had perched on the hood of Emma’s CX-7, stubbornly refusing to move until she was given some answers. Half an hour later, seated over the comforting aroma of Juan in a Million breakfast tacos, Emma began to offer them.

_Six foot two. Sexy blue eyes. Dark hair, but maybe he colors it, it looks reddish sometimes. Makes a living as a live performance sound engineer. He likes the odd hours, the travelling. No, nobody you’d know or listen to. Likes to write and play his own music – no, nothing you’ve ever heard. He doesn’t really have a place of his own, I guess he just crashes with friends or club owners or camps out in hotels. He never mentions family; I’m pretty sure his parents have passed away. No, he never asks me for money. Yeah, he’ll sleep at my place every once in a while, but I don’t think he likes it very much; he might be allergic to cats. I will not discuss his dick with you. I don’t know where we are… somewhere between casual and serious, I guess. Honestly, Aim, I don’t think you’d like him. But I do… I can’t help it…_

Amy didn’t exactly appear satisfied, but she at least seemed to accept Emma’s words as truth. “I gotta tell you, Em, he doesn’t sound like the kind of guy you should be wasting your time with…”

Emma sighed in acceptance. “I can see why you’d feel that way.” She took a sip from her water glass, spinning the tumbler on the tabletop before narrowing her eyes at Amy’s lingering stare. “What?”

“It’s just…” an oddly unfamiliar expression passed over the young woman’s face; it took a moment for Emma to recognize it as envy. “You just seem really happy.” She twirled her fork absently against her plate. “I would never have guessed a guy like the one you’re describing could make you this happy.”

Emma’s smile was secret and sweet. “I never would have guessed it either. But he does.”

She’d kept her eye on the trade magazines and newspapers after that morning, committing to memory the names and schedules of several different bands and performers. She selected acts just successful enough to warrant the services of someone in the position she’d described without being so popular as to ruin the veracity of the story she’d spun. Turned out it was unnecessary – the occasional breakfast after work or dinner before seemed to placate her friend just fine, as long as Emma continued to assure her that yes, if she ever believed things were growing more serious, she’d arrange for Amy and Adam to meet face to face.

“Dallas, huh?”

Amy’s absent inquiry pulled Emma out of her reverie and back to the status board glowing on the screen in front of her. “Huh? Oh… yeah. Dallas.”

“Well, that’s not so bad, you know? Not so far away that him maybe sneaking back for Christmas is out of the question…”

“Yeah,” Emma offered her a small but sunny smile. “Maybe.”

The following evening, better rested than she wanted to be, Emma leaned into her bathroom vanity to smooth a sheen of festive scarlet over her lips before stepping back and giving herself one final once over. She’d piled her dark hair atop her head in a mass of dark, glossy twists, ironing the loose tendrils of bright red into corkscrew curls that hung down her neck. The elegant evening gown was satin of the same shade, detailed with shimmering silver lace. The collar fastened at the nape of her neck, the skin of her back exposed by a heart-shaped cutout, and the skirt clung to the curves of her hips before flaring to the floor below her knees. Her polished nails peeked through the toes of her silver high-heeled pumps, and she smiled wistfully at the tiny healed nick at the inside of her ankle before buckling the strap in place over it. Standing straight once more and smoothing her palms down over her bodice, she snapped open the clasp of her clutch. She slipped her lipstick in beside her ID and credit card, checked the charge on her cellular before adding it, too. Finally, with a resentful scowl, she reached for the box of discreetly packaged cotton-stuffed tubes, snatching a few and stuffing them unceremoniously to the bottom of her bag before tossing in the small bottle of pain relievers as well. She’d known for weeks her monthly timing would guarantee her anything but a white Christmas; it was the only reason she’d decided to spend her first holiday off in years at a charity ball instead of in Adam’s bed.

Christopher House was the inpatient facility for Austin Hospice, and had been serving the community for more than fifteen years. Every year for as long as Emma had been a nurse, several local companies and merchants had been hosting an enormous Christmas ball to raise awareness and funds to help keep its doors open. Tickets to the dinner, the ballroom dance, and access to the silent auction were often offered to hospital employees and healthcare workers at a discount as, in a great many cases, attendee’s ended up donating their time and skills to the facility as a result. Emma’s previous nurse manager had even left her position to work for the organization directly; it was her voice that called Emma’s name as she thanked the Four Season’s concierge for taking her coat. “Emmaline Minette, how wonderful to see you, my God, don’t you look _fantastic_ …”

Marina and Vicente were already seated at their table, their heads bent close in intimate congress, but both their eyes lit up at her approach. She was soon engulfed in warm hugs and an even warmer flurry of Spanish sprinkled compliments, and Marina thrust a delicate flute of sparkling amber into her hands. “Drink up, _Corazon_ ,” she giggled airily as Emma sank into her chair, “ _las enfermeras están fuera del reloj…”_

Slowly, each spot at the table was taken by familiar face after familiar face. John and Christine both worked days in the ER, he as an RN, she as trauma surgeon fellow. Marc, the OB tech, was there with his twin-heavy wife, as was Dana from the office of the CFO. Conversation ebbed and flowed around the delivery of appetizers, salads, and supper, each dish more savory and delicious than the last. The air was festive and friendly, but the pang of deep longing never left the hollow of Emma’s gut, not even when the well-known cramp of monthly woe twisted through it. Excusing herself to the ladies’ room as the dinner service was being cleared, she shook a couple of pills into her palm, swallowing them dry before locking herself in a stall.

Half of the dessert plates sat ignored at the table upon her return, the guests they were intended for having flocked to the dance floor; Emma jokingly reminded herself it would be rude to finish any but her own. She’d just licked the last of the decadent chocolate torte from her fork when Marina pushed her chair back from the table with an unrefusable, “Let’s go, _hermana…_ ”

Emma’s jaw flapped weakly as the tiny whirlwind of a woman hauled her up by her elbow, dragging her to the edge of the floor. “Marina, put the brakes on a second… I can’t do that,” she gestured to the couples gliding by in various graceful ballroom styles. She cut her eyes to Vicente’s amused but sympathetic face. “Dr. G, you saw me at that New Year’s thing… tell her…”

“You should let the girl, be, Mare,” he nodded through a soft chuckle. “She’s not lying… she can hoof it down the hallway and two-step an IV pole with the best of them. But you put her on a dance floor…”

“I’m two left feet,” Emma finished for him.

“Well, then,” Marina set her chin, a teasing light in her eyes, “it’s a good thing Dr. Durant is here from Ortho. Will, hey Will! C’mere…”

Emma endured an awkward spin around the floor on the young man’s arm, thanking him politely when he released her with a small befuddled smile. Lindsey cajoled her into taking her place with Marc so she could go rest her swollen ankles, and finally, Dr. Gabriel was there with a sweet bow and an offered palm. “Relax, _Bastante Porcelana_ ,” he grinned. “We’ll keep it simple.”

Emma blew her bangs off her forehead before placing her hand in his, straightening her back as his palm came to rest on her hip. “So,” she smiled impishly as he began to lead her along the floor in a smooth box step, “am I supposed to pretend you and Marina will _not_ be leaving together tonight?”

Vicente’s ruddy tan flushed as he choked out a small chuckle. “I would appreciate that, yes,” he nodded as she giggled a sincere apology. “What about you?” he inquired with a quirk of his head. “Where’s your rock star tonight?”

Emma blanched, her sagging mouth suddenly bone dry. “I… my… what are you talking about? What rock star?”

Dr. Gabriel’s eyes clouded in honest confusion. “I thought… Amy said you started seeing some musician a few months back…?”

“Jesus,” Emma shook her head incredulously, “she’s got such a big mouth, that girl…”

“Emma, I’m sorry,” Vicente’s voice softened with humility. “I don’t mean to perpetuate gossip, or to intrude upon your privacy. I simply thought…”

“No, no, Dr. G, it’s okay,” she offered him a shy little shrug. “I know you didn’t mean to be rude, you were just making conversation.” She let her gaze drift for a moment as he looked down on her, hints of expectation still lingering about his features. “He’s not a rock star,” she sighed at last. “He’s just a guy.”

“Oh, Emma,” the older man chucked her gently beneath the chin. “Any man who can put that faraway look in your eye is anything but ‘just a guy’.”

She exhaled a small laugh through her nose. “Well… I guess I like him okay…”

Vicente’s laugh was a little louder, a little fuller. “And what about him? Does he like _you_ okay?”

Emma’s teeth closed briefly on her bottom lip as a dozen images flashed through her mind at once: his fingers strumming over the bridge of his mandolin with reverent and loving care, the curl of his lip as he scribbled notes across paper, the dawning desire in his eyes when his mind shifted from work to play, the throbbing red in his irises as he called forth her climax to sweeten his feed, the golden glow in his skin and eyes as he slipped sated into sleep, his head pillowed on her breast or stomach. “I think so,” she admitted quietly.

“Well, good,” Dr. Gabriel dropped a polite bow as the music drifted into silence, dropping a gallant kiss to the back of her fingers. “He has excellent taste.”

The giggle in her throat died quickly as she realized a simple turn of her hand would exposed a small, shining scar on the inside of her wrist; thankfully, the man holding it was suddenly distracted by a pair of dark and sultry eyes seeking his from across the room. “Well, uh,” he stammered a bit, “I guess this is the moment where I _don’t_ bid you goodnight, because I’m _not_ leaving with anyone…”

Emma nodded her head slowly, solemnly. “Then I _won’t_ tell you to drive carefully, and I _won’t_ tell you to have a good time.”

Vicente chortled heartily before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Merry Christmas, dear Emma.”

“ _Feliz Navidad, Doctor en Sangre_ ,” she teased. “Or should I say, _Doctor Amor_...” She watched the pair connect discreetly at the door, raised a hand and blew a kiss in response to Marina’s wave. Then, slowly, she made her way back to their abandoned table. She sank into her chair, tilting the last of her champagne into her mouth and swallowing with a shiver. Her gaze scanned the room, admiring gowns and tuxedos and not finding a recognizable face in the bunch.

She was pondering flagging a waiter for a refill when she felt it – a slow sizzle spreading beneath her skin, every hair rising to stand straight in its place, her body a pebbled landscape of goosebumps as a low, electric throb began to radiate from the pit of her stomach. One end of a magnet drawing close to the opposite pole of another; she knew it could mean only one thing. Her eyes darted to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out upon the festive illumination of downtown; she nearly knocked her chair over in her haste pushing it back.

“Adam…”

Her knees were shaking as she crossed the room, her hands pressed to the hollow of her belly in a vain attempt to quell the dull, cramping ache that twisted there like a rusty knife. Where would he be? Lounging against the hood of his car in the public lot across the street? Standing dark and silent in the circle of the corner streetlight? Patiently pacing the length of the sidewalk three stories down, waiting for her to make her exit? She groped weakly for the heavy velvet of the curtain, lay her forehead against the cool glass.

Outside… nothing. Not even a lone passing car.

She closed her eyes tightly, swallowed against the bitter salt of disappointment in her throat.

And then, a hand on her hip, a low growl in her ear. “Good evening… my beautiful Emmaline…”


	14. Chapter 14

Emma turned carefully on her heel, and her eyes widened slowly in delighted surprise.

He was the picture of princely perfection. His long, dark hair was brushed back from his proud forehead, feathering down his neck in thick, soft curls. His angular jaw was dusted with a gingery scruff, the whiskers above and below his lips trimmed and tidy. His jacket was coal black linen, his button-down shirt crisp cotton. His red satin tie was pulled loose about his neck, exposing the inviting dip of the hollow of his throat. His dark trousers were form fitting, cinched at the waist with a shining silver buckle. The hand not caressing her hip held a sprig of fresh mistletoe, its crisp, green leaves shaking ever so slightly in his trembling grasp.

“Adam?”

He lifted his eyes and her breath hitched in her chest at the smoldering shadows staring back at her. “Jesus Christ, Emmaline,” he rasped, his voice a vibrating rumble beneath the effort of his restraint. “I can fucking _smell_ you…”

“Adam,” her lip quivered with worry as she lay her palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I stayed away…”

His arm around her tightened abruptly, yanking her against him. “ _Why_?”

Her mouth worked soundlessly, words of explanation eluding her. “I… I just… I thought…” She could hear the inhuman growl rising from his chest; without another heartbeat of hesitation, she pulled him into the tiny alcove of privacy offered by the heavy curtain. Winding her arms around him, she let her head fall back on her neck; he gasped in shocked surprise at her voice whispering softly through his brain.

_A sip for self-control, Adam. Take it… please…_

Forcing himself to remain calm, he pulled his lips back from his fangs.

_I don’t dare bite, Emmaline. I won’t be able to stop. We’ll be caught…_

Her fingers stroked soothingly through his hair.

_Then just nip. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere…_

Lowering his mouth to her throat, he flicked the tip of one needle-fine point over the thin skin that covered a delicate blue line; shuddering in her embrace, he began to lap hungrily at the scarlet flow that welled from the break.

To the outside eye, the pair would have looked like nothing more than two star-crossed lovers, holding tightly to one another to share warmth and breath. Only one close enough to touch would have been able to feel the air of Emma’s lax, lilting sighs, to hear the soft, sucking sounds of Adam’s mouth on her flesh, to see the stray drop of blood tickling its way down the exposed expanse of her back, vibrant crimson against porcelain white.

A ruddy flush had returned to his face when he stood straight above her, his eyes once more an ocean of calm, cool blue. He tucked a cherry red curl behind her ear before turning her around, cleaning away the singular spill with one quick, broad stroke of his tongue. He hadn’t taken much, but the depletion joined with the effects of two glasses of champagne and the heady rush of his unexpected arrival left Emma pleasantly woozy, and she smiled seductively up into his eyes. “You got your Christmas kiss, sir,” she pouted prettily. “What about mine?”

Adam rolled his eyes, only slightly annoyed. “Sweet, silly Emmaline,” he purred, “whatever am I to do with you?” He chuckled a bit as her fingers closed around his wrist, lifting the hand that held the mistletoe up above her head. “Whatever am I to do with you?” he whispered again as he lowered his lips to hers. She tasted of gingerbread and warm mulled cider, he could smell the sap in the trunk of the fir and the popcorn she’d strung through the heavy green branches, hear the bells tinkling as a much skinnier, still-healing tabby batted at their low-hanging bellies. Her eyes fluttered a bit when he let her mouth go, and he lay a cool palm against her cheek until their grey-green depths were refocused and clear.

“Come along,” he sniffed with a smirk, pulling the curtain aside and escorting her back into the light, a gentlemanly arm at her waist. “You know,” he nuzzled the warm, pale skin at the nape of her neck as his hand at the small of her back guided her to collect her purse and wrap, “I had every intention of taking you out on that floor, showing you a proper waltz.”

“You did?” she blinked before cutting her eyes anxiously to the now near-empty dance floor, fumbling with the dangle of an earring. He nodded, and she nibbled on her lower lip. “And… now?”

“Now…” he pulled her close against him, leaning down and inhaling deeply through his nose. She shivered at the thunderhead of naked hunger that passed over the cerulean sea of his eyes. “We’re leaving.”

His cool, chivalrous manner endured, even after they stepped free of the hotel’s revolving door, his grip on her tightening a bit at the first gust of the cool evening breeze. She gasped softly as the air around her seemed to evaporate, the heels of her pumps skittering across the pavement as he swept her to the passenger door of the Jaguar parked in the empty lot at the end of the block. He opened it graciously for her, and before she had time to blink, he was seated beside her, the engine revving beneath his foot as she buckled her seatbelt into place. A right, then a left, and then she was watching the lights of the city winking into the distance from the rearview mirror.

“I don’t mind telling you,” she shifted a bit against the leather, turning towards him with a small, flirty smile, “I’ve known for a while you aren’t the office Christmas party type.” He didn’t look at her, only kept his gaze fixed on the horizon in front of them and she paused for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “But I did wonder if it would… I don’t know… bother you that I didn’t actually ask you to come with me.” His eyes cut briefly to the mirror at his left, at his right, then stared ahead once more. “I mean,” she continued, the slightest nervous edge creeping into her voice, “I hope you know, I would have loved for you to come with me for the whole thing. Really. I’d have been proud to show you off.”

His brief snort of laughter was the only indication she had that he’d heard her, his bare hands still gripping the steering wheel with an air of steely concentration.

“But I knew that you don’t… you know… you wouldn’t eat the meal.” She waited for his reaction; he simply drove on. “And I knew that Dr. Gabriel would be there, and that that would probably make things… well… we’d need a new word for awkward.” When the allusion to his illicit hospital connection failed to draw his look her direction, she fidgeted a bit in her seat. The air seemed a bit too thick, too cloying, and she thumbed the button to lower her window. The chill of the passing evening had just wisped across her forehead when Adam’s hand shot to the controls at his side, raising the glass and sealing it out once again. “Oh, sorry,” Emma blurted, her fingers plucking nervously at the lace detailing of her skirt. “I just,” she stammered, “I don’t know. I guess I worried a little that, if I did ask, you’d assume I didn’t know you very well at all.” His head tipped in a wry little nod, and the knot that had begun to cinch in the hollow of her chest loosened a hitch. “Anyway,” she reached across the small gulf between them and lay her hand on his shoulder, “this is a very nice, very unexpected surprise.”

The interstate was empty, but her body still braced defensively when Adam cut the vehicle to the right, bringing the car to a skidding halt in the soft gravel along the island that separated northbound from south. She barely had time to squeak his name before his right hand caught the scruff of her neck, yanking her close. His tongue was icy and slick as it pushed its way between her lips; she was just melting into the kiss when she felt his left hand snake gracefully, purposefully under her skirt. His eyes were once again black with craving as he pushed past the flimsy barrier of her panties, and hers widened in shock before sliding closed, her body arching into his touch as it teased over her soft and sensitized folds. “A sip for self-control,” he whispered, dipping inside her just enough to make her ache for more before withdrawing again. Lifting his scarlet stained fingers to his lips, he sucked her from his skin with a soft groan of satisfaction. She was still reeling when his hands returned to the steering wheel, the roar of the engine filling her ears as he pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

The house appeared as dark and deserted as it always did when he guided the Jaguar to its resting place beside the back porch. But she could see light spilling down the staircase from the loft as he swung the back door open, ushering her inside with an air of barely tethered urgency. His arm wrapped around her waist, his torso pressed against her back as he walked her towards it, his mouth at her ear making her shudder with nervous anticipation. “Christ… Emmaline… you smell so fucking good…”

“Adam,” she giggled breathlessly as his hands cupped her breasts, as his groin rolled insistently against the curve of her ass. “Slow down… just a little…” The snarl that rumbled across her neck was a mixture of playful passion and hungry possession, and her grip stuttered along the bannister, seeking balance. “Adam… come on… please…” His right hand flattened against her and slid slowly down her ribcage, past the anxious flutter behind her navel to press against the throbbing ache between her legs. “Oh, God…”

The chuckle that dusted across her cheek was full of dark satisfaction as she danced helplessly beneath his palm, her head falling back against his shoulder as her hips jutted sharply forward, unable to resist the silent command in the rhythm of his touch. “Sweet, silly Emmaline,” he cooed softly against her skin, the gentle teasing of his voice a deliciously direct contradiction to the impatient demand of his body. “Have you forgotten, my dear?” His fingers flexed restlessly, dragging the silky-slick material of her gown higher and higher as he mouthed his way along her jawline. She flinched in self-conscious struggle as the cool breeze of the surrounding night caressed her bare thighs, as his fingers dove greedily between them to breach the delicate lacy sheath that concealed her sex once more. “You give,” he bit down on her earlobe while flicking a fingertip lightly over her swollen clitoris, drawing a gasping moan from her slack lips. “I take.” His other hand slid up to cup her beneath her chin, her tongue darting out to meet his thumb before it pushed firmly between them. “You belong,” he yanked her head sharply to the side so her wide green eyes could see the burning hunger pulsing red in his, “and I own.”

A flash of movement, a rush of air, and Emma found herself flat on her back on the landing between the first section of stairs and the second, the soft fabric of her skirt draped over her in a crimson curtain. She squeaked a tiny mewl at the purring sound of tearing fabric and the dragging sensation as Adam clawed his way through the last of the materials that lay between them. And then her eyes flew wide in shock, and a reflexive litany of “no no no” began to tumble from her lips as his mouth found her, his cold, questing tongue pressing frantically between her warm, wet folds. “Adam,” she whimpered, her cheeks burning, “stop… stop, please!”

If he heard her, he gave no sign, his lips groping and sucking at her quivering flesh with starving determination. She forced herself up onto her elbows, trying desperately to drag herself back, but his hands closed around her knees in a viselike grip, yanking her forward against his mouth as if she were feather-light. “Adam!” she sobbed, a tiny thread of panic winding itself around the base of her brain as ecstasy began to overpower embarrassment, her palms skittering against the wooden floor as she fought to put some distance between the two of them. “Please stop… you don’t have to… oh, _fuck_ , that feels so good…”

Adam’s silky snicker vibrated through her core, and he nipped tauntingly at the tender flesh beneath his tongue.

Gritting her teeth, Emma tried again, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to buck him off. “Adam, please? Please, please stop… this is… I’m… I don’t… you don’t… oh, God, you’re such an asshole!” He laughed richly at that, pressing a firm kiss to the center of her pubis before suckling her clit tenderly between his lips and making her whine deep in her throat. “Adam…”

“Emmaline,” his eyes appeared over the folds of fabric that heaved with her ragged breathing, bold and black above his blood-streaked lips. “Stop. Fucking. Talking.”

She opened her mouth to contradict him, but her words melted into an unintelligible moan as he pressed two fingers deep inside her, pressing up to stroke his fingertips against the spot that made her insides clench and quake. Another quick, sharp thrust, and another, and her hands flew to his hair, curling against his scalp as she lifted her hips in desperate offering. His mouth enveloped her once more, delving, devouring, until her eyes slid closed and she surrendered wholly to his fierce and feral need. She flooded over his lips and tongue, keening softly in delight, and he drank her down, the rafters filling with the wet sounds of her pleasure and the low hum of his approval.

She was draped limply across the floor, twitching incoherently beneath the ebbing waves of her climax when he rose above her, wiping his lips and chin on the sleeve of his jacket before hauling her carefully to her feet. Her head lolled drunkenly on her neck as he put her back against the wall, fumbling his fly open before lifting her legs and wrapping them around his waist. “Hold onto me, sweet,” he growled into her sleepy smile, “I’m nowhere near done with you…”

“Oh, God… Adam…” Her teeth bit deeply into her bottom lip as he filled her, slow and smooth, his mouth open against the pounding pulse in her throat. She wound her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him as his fingers dug into her hips, as the quickly warming rod of his cock slid smoothly against her slick, snug walls. “Kiss me… please, Adam… kiss me…”

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he complied, his tongue flickering over hers in a delicate but demanding dance. She closed her eyes, and behind her lids came an explosion of vibrant color. Red and gold and rich royal green, the textures and tapestries of a beautiful theater balcony seat. She could smell powder and perfume and the pleasant pungent sweat of exhilaration. Below, wood and string and brass bellowed out melody and magic, a grand, pounding tune both foreign and familiar that had everyone in the hall on the edge of their seat. The man at the podium danced his baton through the air with bravado, but when the last note exploded into silence and the audience erupted into thunderous applause, he turned his head up, dropped a wink and a bow her direction. She felt her lips curve in a faint, pride-filled smirk, felt her head drop in a nod of acknowledgement.

_Purists will insist there’s no way Salieri could have given him_ The Magic Flute… _and they’ll be right…_

“ _Maestro_ …” she whispered longingly into his mouth.

His reply was soft and sensual. “ _Tesorina mia_ …”

She clawed roughly at his jacket and shirt, overtaken by a swift and sudden need to feel his skin beneath her fingers. His body held hers to the wall as his own hands flew to help her, and he groaned with a shudder at the silky scratch of the lace of her gown tickling at his chest and stomach. She reached behind her neck to unfasten the collar but he shook his head with a snarl, catching her wrists and pinning them beside her head. “Just like this…” She nodded breathlessly, and he claimed her mouth once more, driving his tongue between her lips in tandem with his thrusting hips between her legs.

Minutes, hours. Emma had no idea how long he held her there, toeing the line between begging for release and begging for more, between wanting to come and wanting their coupling to surge on forever. He would move against her, fast and furious, then slow and stop, watching her whimper and writhe with a wicked grin. Finally, when she was little more than plea and perspiration, he buried his face in her neck, sucking warmth to the pulse point beneath her ear. His hand disappeared beneath her dress, and as his fangs slipped painlessly into a vein, he strummed her gently, slow, sweet, until she was limp and sated against him, breathing soft and shaking sobs over his shoulder.

She came back to herself gradually, one breath at a time, guided by the quiet murmur of his voice and the stroking of his hand through her hair. They were sitting on the landing, Adam’s back to the wall with her body curled in his lap, the two of them blanketed by the satin of her skirt. He’d pulled the clips from her curls and let them tumble to the floor; their jeweled facets winked in the light that spilled down the stairs from the loft. She tilted her face up to his with a contented little sigh, and he smirked at the blush in her cheeks. “There you are,” he mumbled, warm irritation in his voice as she dusted tiny nibbling kisses at the corner of his jaw. “Sitting here getting splinters in my ass waiting for you to come ‘round…”

He rose to his feet with her in his arms, carrying her up the steps as she scoffed through her nose. “Oh, gee, I’m really sorry.” She tugged playfully at a lock of his hair. “Since when does it matter if I’m awake after or not? You never need me for…” she groped for words, “… whatever you feel like doing when you’re fed and full.”

“I don’t _need_ you for this, either,” he scoffed brusquely, continuing past the sofas, past the bedroom, to the attic door that stood ajar. Emma’s brow quirked in curious confusion as he paused briefly, his expression unreadable, before he set her on her feet and waved her forward with a sweep of his arm. Lifting her hem to prevent tripping over it, she drew in a deep breath, and climbed the narrow staircase. It left her in a rush when she reached the top, when Adam flipped the switch on the wall.

The rafters had been strung with hundreds of tiny white lights, their twinkling casting the room in a heavenly glow. The empty walls of the attic space had been replaced by bookshelf after bookshelf, heavy with as many volumes as she could read in a lifetime. Her simple feather mattress now had a box frame, and a dozen overstuffed pillows had been added to create a warm and inviting nest. A small end table was set with a bottle of wine, a single serving tray of meat and cheese and fruit, and a box of chocolates. In the corner, miniature and modestly decorated with ornaments of red and silver, a tiny tree. “Adam,” she spun on her heel to face him, her eyes shining with surprised appreciation. “I… I can’t believe it…”

His responding shrug was cool, aloof. “I figure the more you bump around up here the less you’re in my way down there…”

“Oh, you grumpy old Grinch,” she grabbed his arms and yanked him forward with a brusque shake of her head. “You don’t fool me.” She traced a fingertip over the firm muscle of his chest. “I may not be able to hear it beating, but I know the heart of a romantic is in there somewhere…”

“You do, do you?” he sniffed, heartily disinterested.

“I do,” she pressed a soft kiss to his lips, utterly unbothered when he did not return it. “But don’t worry,” she teased lightly, “even if I had someone to spill your secret to, I wouldn’t.”

His blue eyes darkened, and he smoothed a hand through her hair before slipping the other around her waist, drawing her slight, supple frame against him. “That,” he nuzzled her with the tip of his nose, “I believe.” He kissed her, once, twice, heard the words flitter through her head before they slipped easily from her mouth.

“I love you, Adam.”

He traced a thumb over her lips, watched them curl at the edges. “I know you do.”

Silence hung heavy in the air between them for a long moment. Finally, Emma narrowed her eyes in a spirited squint, then turned on her heel to offer him her back. “Unzip me?”

Adam felt the floor tilt crazily beneath his feet for a brief second before the world righted itself once more. He hadn’t expected a tantrum; he knew her well enough by now to know that wasn’t quite her style. But her sweet, easy acceptance of his non-reciprocal reply… he hadn’t expected that either. He probed her mind as best he could as he nudged her hair to the side, unhooking the clasp of the collar at her neck, pulling the zipper down from the center to the small of her back. There was nothing to find, only pleasantly surprised and sleepy satisfaction, and he closed his eyes in quiet gratitude. He brushed his lips over the newly bared landscape, touching, tasting, breathing in the warm orchid and almond of her skin as he knelt in the crimson pool at her feet to unbuckle her sandals. Once she was as naked as he, he took her hand and led her to the pallet he’d dressed. Pulling her down, guiding her head to his chest, he curled around her as she yawned, burying his nose in her hair as her eyes fluttered shut.

The darkness behind her lids was suddenly dotted with winks of fluffy white: pure, perfect snowflakes falling from a velvety black sky. She could hear the soft hiss of them hitting the ground, feel their quick, frosty kisses as they melted against her nose and cheeks. Her nostrils filled with the crisp, clean scent of ice, the earthy aroma of fresh pine, and the acrid warmth of burning wood. Her mouth was full of rich, creamy chocolate, a hint of peppermint still dancing on her tongue. She could hear the crunch of feet shuffling their way through the snow, the clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone, and the dull pleasant hum of a dozen conversations. A dusting of wintery wind bit at her body, and she wiggled her cold fingers inside their gloves, pulled the heavy wool of her coat tighter around her before burying her chin in the scarf at her throat. Turning toward a ghosting of warmth, she began to pick her way along the road, mindful of the icy patches that dotted her path.

A crowd had gathered in the courtyard of a church, people standing shoulder to shoulder, talking, laughing, milling about with an air of patient expectation. As she approached from the opposite side of the street, she realized she recognized the architecture; after all, St. Patrick’s really hadn’t changed that much over the years. The dress and demeanor of the citizens sharing her space brought to mind pictures she’d seen from the nineteenth century; Adam’s voice murmured briefly in her brain: “Eighteen sixty-one.”

Her lips had just bowed in a silent smile when the church doors swung open, and the majestic melody of a pipe organ echoed from within. A brief refrain, then another. And then, on a collective breath, the sound of the youth chorus drifted out to fill the dusk.

_Away in a manger, no crib for a bed…_

She stood for long moments in that snow-covered square, watching families and friends, lovers and strangers, all huddled together to enjoy their fleeting fellowship, bound by the light of a shared community fire and the silvery sound of a children’s choir. And just as her heart began to twist with the ache of being alien and alone, the man lying next to her chased her down into sleep, and memory became dream. She looked down at her side to see long, graceful fingers plaiting through hers, then up into the cool but comforting blue of the eyes of its owner. He lifted his other hand to her cheek, shielding it from the cold with a tender caress. “Merry Christmas, Adam,” she whispered, rising up on her toes.

Pulling her closer in the makeshift bed tucked in the attic of his tumbledown house, his kiss found her forehead.

“Merry Christmas, my lovely little Emmaline.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: It's not exactly non-con, but it's most definitely dub-con. Please take a breath and proceed with caution.

“Did you enjoy your nurse’s night out, my dear?”

The question was curiosity, the tone was grumbled, grizzled reproach, and Emma pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead as she rolled onto her back beneath the silky sheets with a low, grinding groan. “Coffee…”

Adam’s scowl was tinged with a hint of malicious satisfaction as she struggled up onto her elbows, and he dangled a glass of water in front of her eyes with an air of know-it-all superiority. “Take it from the one who tasted you last night and can still smell you this evening,” he sniffed, “you’ll want this first.” She frowned childishly as she took the cup from his hand, then squinted at the pills that lay in his open palm. “And these.”

She offered muttered thanks before downing the aspirin and more than half the cool liquid at a draught, pulling the sheet modestly around her bare breasts and scruffing a hand through her wildly tossed locks. “Are you saying I stink?”

He nodded flatly. “Like the barrels they used to stack on Marshall outside the Green Dragon, love,” he gruffed before stretching out on the mattress beside her, fluffing the pillows behind him and smoothing his dressing gown down over his stomach. Emma glared at him side-eye for a moment before leaning to put her glass on the bedside table, then twisting to her hip to drape an arm over his chest, burrowing into him with a sigh. “For fuck’s sake,” he growled, arching his head away from her. “Did I not just confirm for you that you reek of a distillery?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Shut up.” The two stared one another down, both refusing to budge, until Adam rolled his eyes skyward and pressed into the pillow beneath him. Emma smirked in satisfaction, tracing a fingertip along the skin exposed by his open lapels and watching him lick his lips and swallow with effort against the arid dryness of his mouth. “Wait,” she propped herself up above him, a curious and gleeful light slowly filling her eyes. “Did I get you drunk last night?”

“Emmaline,” his voice was heavy with weary warning, but her lilting giggle easily cut him off.

“I did! I got you drunk last night! Oh, my God… I didn’t drink that much!”

“Emmaline…”

“I mean… I had a couple…”

His derisive snort made her laugh even harder. “A couple of what? Bottles?”

“And if I’m to be honest,” she pressed on as if she hadn’t heard him, “it probably wasn’t my finest hour driving like that…”

“Just wait until you see the disgrace you call a parking job you tried to pull off out back…”

“But I just missed you so much…” she whined cutely.

“You were horny as fuck,” Adam clarified with a sneer.

“You know,” she caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth, “there was this really cute bartender who kept trying to catch a glimpse of the girls all night, I could have gone home with him…”

“All right,” Adam snarled, rolling over on top of her and pinning her to the mattress in a flurry of hiccupping squeals. “Now you’re the one who needs to shut up…”

After their lovely Christmas together, the new year had blown in on a cold, damp breeze of life-as-usual. She’d worked a stretch of three that ended the morning of January first; she was still dressed in her scrubs when she slid into the booth at the Magnolia Café. Ethan and his live-in arrived a few moments later, joining her for a belated holiday breakfast on their way to Cozumel; her presents for them were wrapped and waiting on their placemats beside their silverware. He was more than pleased with the vintage silver and sapphire cufflinks and tie tack, and Isabel was touched by the hand crafted peacock glass hair combs. Emma knew her brother well enough to know that the charm bracelet had to have been Isabel’s idea, but the charms themselves could only have been selected with his guidance – the caduceus and Red Cross nursing hat were easy, as was the cat sleeping curled into a ball, but the stories behind the beach ball, the flashlight, the rubber duck, the ladybug, and the Monopoly dog belonged to the siblings alone. That was until Adam, lying in her bed with her asleep in his arms, absorbed them with the simple trace of a fingertip over each shining enameled and silver surface.

A few weeks of back and forth, and Adam reclined against her headboard as she fastened an earring in place, watching Nemesis absently shred the cotton stuffing from the luxury cushion lying battered in the corner. “Why does your mother even bother? Fat old fucker never sleeps on them anyway, all he does is make a right bloody mess…”

Emma glanced over her shoulder with a smile of warm affection. “It makes him happy,” she sighed before leaning in to dust a warm kiss against his lips. “How do I look?” He gave her an indifferent once over as she spun in front of him, nodding blankly at the cowl neck of her sequined top and the snug, curving lines of her tight-fitting jeans. “Don’t hurt yourself there, buddy,” she chided with a playful glower, “it’s only my pride we’re talking about here…”

“Your mother has an excellent eye for dressing her daughter,” he droned, monotonous. Furrowing his brow but refusing to pout, he straightened his slouch. “Tell me again what this evening accomplishes,” he sniffed as she turned on her heel, slipping a lip gloss and a tube of breath mints into her bag.

“The natives are getting restless,” she grinned, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “The more I blow them off to be with you, the more they want to know about you, the more questions they ask, the more hints they drop about bringing you around to say hello. And you know,” she crossed back to the bed to sit in the sprawl of his legs, caressing his jaw in one warm, soft palm. “I work very hard to protect your Howard Hughes lifestyle. But anytime you’re feeling jealous…”

“Jealous?” he snorted incredulously.

She exhaled a teasing giggle. “You’re more than welcome to come along.” He bared his fangs at her with a quiet hiss, she yipped just a little as he pricked the thumb that had been tracing over his lips with one needle-fine point. “Ow,” she breathed longingly as he sucked the leaking flesh into his mouth. He smirked at her before fisting her blouse and pulling her close, flicking his tongue briefly against hers. “It’s just one night,” she murmured reassurance. “We have three more to come.”

He grazed the tip of her nose with his own. “I know.”

She nuzzled back with a sigh. “I love you.”

Another soft kiss, a gentle tug to one waving violet lock. “I know.”

She confirmed the cat’s dishes were full and functional as he followed her to the door, her keys jingling in her hand. “You know you’re welcome to stay here,” she offered sweetly, biting back her laughter at his marked lack of amusement as he thrust his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “You’ll be fine,” she cooed as he escorted her out into the early evening chill.

“Of course I will.”

She paused at the door of her car to wind her arms around his neck, to press herself against him as she folded down his collar. “You’ll get lots of work done.”

He looked down his nose at her with a cool, removed air. “Of course I will.”

She nodded, combing her fingers gently through his curls. “Think you might miss me? Just a little tiny bit?” she queried quietly, her eyes searching his.

His hands came to rest lightly on her hips, pulling her closer before sliding around to cup the curves of her ass. “Of course I will.” Her smile was shy radiance before he covered it with his mouth, stealing one long, last taste of her to take with him.

He hadn’t expected to see her until the following evening, but when he heard the crunch of dirt and gravel echoing through the yard at four a.m., he realized he was not at all surprised. He was lounged on the Louis, plucking a harmony line from the cooperative strings of the mandolin when the back door swung open, then clicked shut. He listened to the tinkling thump of her bag and keys hitting the counter, the slightly unsteady shuffle of her feet on the floor. He didn’t bother to glance up until he saw the toes of her black leather boots on the carpet in front of him; when he finally did, he was far from disappointed.

Her hair, blown out for the occasion, was a wild, magnificent mess, tousled haphazardly around her neck and shoulders. The dark kohl and mascara she’d used to decorate her eyes was smoky and smudged, the roses in her cheeks in full, blushing bloom. Her pouty lips were pink and parted, and he could smell the honeyed whiskey she’d shot on her soft, hitching breaths. “Emmaline,” he’d greeted her casually as she plucked the instrument from his grasp, setting it carefully aside before climbing into his lap.

“Adam,” she’d whispered in reply before taking his neck in her hands and sealing her mouth over his.

The kiss burned long and scorching as his hands slid up her back beneath her shirt, the icy coolness of his palms a delicious contrast to the heat boiling beneath her skin. “I take it you had a good time, sweet,” he murmured when they parted, gazing aloofly up into her face as her fingers began to clumsily battle the buttons of his shirt.

“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded, smiling triumphantly as one popped free, then the next.

“And how are the ladies?” Polite disinterest as she continued her work, pulling the fabric open to bare his torso when the last tiny disk slid free from its hole.

“They’re fine,” Emma flattened her palms against the planes of his stomach before sliding them up over his chest. He inhaled sharply at the warmth of her touch, the sound of her blood rushing through her veins as she leaned closed to kiss and nip at his throat.

“Bought us some time then, did you?” he rasped, his fingers fumbling with the clasp at the center of her spine as she bit down on his earlobe.

“Mmm-hmm,” her hum vibrated through his brain like a jackhammer.

“Good girl,” he nudged at her breathlessly until she turned her face to his, capturing her mouth in a savage kiss as the elastic in his fingers parted with a snap, his hands sliding quickly around to find and fondle her breasts beneath the cups of silk and lace. She arched into his touch, grinding the damp heat of her arousal against the swelling girth of his own, at last breaking impatiently away from him to yank her blouse and bra over her head together. He growled appreciatively into her cleavage as she tossed them aside, the tip of his tongue flickering over the near-vanished hints of his fangs on her flesh, shining spots of barely-there scars where he’d sampled and sipped her in the months that had passed. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he closed his lips around one swollen, scarlet nipple, her purr of pleasure echoing through the room as he drew roughly at the taut little bud.

“Adam,” she moaned low in her throat, wicked and wanton and writhing against him, her stormy eyes locked with his.

_Emmaline…_

The word drifted like smoke, hoarse and husky, through the depths of her brain, snapping the remaining gossamer thread of her self-control. She scrambled from his lap to tear wildly at his waistband, his velvety chuckle sending goosebumps to flock freely over her flesh. He lifted his hips, pushing into her mouth before she even had his jeans down past his knees, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head as she hollowed her cheeks and fluttered her tongue around him. “Fucking _Christ_ , you’re good at this,” he grunted sharply, returning her impish smile with a grin of his own.

She devoured him in long, sweeping dives, dragging her nails over the taut ridges of his thighs, sometimes submitting to the guiding pressure of his grip in her hair, sometimes pushing back to control the rhythm and pace herself. It wasn’t long before they’d wrestled one another to the floor, fighting the rest of her clothing until he could guide her, bare and beautiful, above him. He didn’t close his eyes, not even for a blink, as she rode him to climax after climax, memorizing every wince and whimper, the rolls of her body, the shining paths of perspiration sliding over her skin. His hand cradled the back of her head as he drank, sweet and slow, his arm around her waist to steady them both as her alcohol and adrenaline infused serum blazed a burning path through his veins, invigorating, intoxicating. And after he’d carried her to bed, he’d rushed back to his composition, desperate to pour that lingering passion into sound.

Now, hovering above her in their hungover afterglow, he could feel the words bubbling behind his lips. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the fading fumes of Irish whiskey like a man nipping the hair of the dog to keep his composure. He could feel her gaze on him, quiet and curious, and he shook his head briefly to clear it. “You’re not going to vomit or anything like that, are you?” he grumbled at last.

Her silvery peal of soft laughter pooled, warm and welcome, in the hollow of his gut. “Oh, Adam,” she sighed. “You’re such a romantic…”

He’d retreated to his soundboard after that, blending together the tracks he’d been laying down for over a week and melting them into vinyl. His thoughts turned briefly to Ian – _still really sorry, man_ – and again he cast silent thanks out into the ether for the calm, laid-back nature of the Austin music scene. So many people busy schlepping for representation and pushing for contracts; he’d found many club owners were more than willing to pay flat rate out of hand for selections to add to their house music, especially once they discovered the artist had no interest in hammering out a royalty schedule or demanding stage time for live performance. It was a bit exhausting playing his own middle man, but it was one less expense to cover, one less loose end to worry about. And while the proprietors he met always seemed eager to hear whatever new offerings he brought, they were equally keen to have business over and done. No long, lingering conversations, very few curious questions.

He hadn’t had so comfortable or profitable an arrangement since propping up drunken court composers treading on the last legs of their patron’s good humor.

He lifted the shining onyx album in his hands, turning it this way and that with a ghost of a grin on his lips before slipping it carefully into a cardboard sleeve. Laying it reverently on the desk in the corner, he pressed his hands to the base of his spine and stretched in a feline arch. His back gave a smartly satisfying crack, and he pulled the headphones from his ears, hanging them carefully on the neck of the Gretsch. The attic door was ajar, and his brow furrowed a bit at the faint sounds of electric guitar and crisp high hat that drifted down the stairs.

He found Emmaline stretched out on her stomach, one of his black t-shirts barely covering the full, taut curves of her buttocks. A hardback volume was open on the pallet in front of her, her cellular phone lay next to her elbow, and the toes of her right foot were tapping against the feather mattress in time to the music echoing from the speaker. He watched her for a long moment before crossing to join her, smiling a bit at her giggled grunt as he draped his body over hers, tucking his chin over her shoulder. His eyes scanned the open book briefly. “ ** _Confessions of an English Opium Eater_**?” he mused, impressed.

“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded, her hair tickling his cheek as she turned a page. “Woke up in a mood for some dark, dystopian nineteenth century London tripping,” she propped her chin on the heel of her hand. “Not exactly sure why…”

Adam nodded himself, glancing over at her phone as one song ended and another began, heavy grunge guitar and thick, booming base. “And this is?”

“Well Dressed Thieves,” Emma answered absently as he picked up the device, tapping at the screen.

“They’re local?”

“Uh-huh.”

Adam turned up the volume a little. “They’re not bad,” he mused. “Let me guess, Amy just _loves_ their music…”

Emma’s breath left her in a hearty guffaw. “Amy _hates_ their music,” she grinned, tapping the screen herself before enlarging the picture, zooming in on a skinny, shaggy blonde screaming into the microphone above his guitar. “But she _loves_ the lead singer.” She read another page, then another, before flipping the book over and wriggling beneath him, shifting onto her side. “Do you like their music?” she asked curiously.

“I said they’re not bad,” Adam replied neutrally.

She chewed on her lip for a moment until he quirked his head at her, question in his eyes. “Because… you know… they’re going to be at the Hole in the Wall next Friday night. You know… we could go… if you wanted to check them out for yourself…”

Adam’s expression darkened briefly. “Little doggie’s dug up the bone again, has she?”

“No, no,” Emma shook her head quickly. “Amy hasn’t said anything lately, other than to tell you she said ‘hi’. And besides, she’s working next Friday before she leaves for Vermont.” She paused for a gulping breath. “We don’t have to go. I just thought… if you liked the music... and it would be just the two of us, you know, nobody I know ever even goes to the Hole in the Wall…”

“Emmaline,” his soft, gravelly growl curled around her name cut her words off with a stutter, and she stared at him with wide, innocent eyes, waiting for anger, for irritation, exasperation. His scowl deepened, held, and her full bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

It took her a moment to catch the lighthearted joke buried beneath his heavy tone and dark look. When she did, she blanched in mild embarrassment and chagrin, rolling back to her book. “You are such an asshole.”

“If I’m such an asshole,” he sniffed, “why are you asking me out on a date?”

“I am not asking you out on date.”

“It certainly sounds like you’re asking me out on a date.” He dropped onto his back, folding his hands on his stomach and crossing his legs with a sigh.

“Fuck you, Adam,” she giggled bitterly, “I am _not_ asking you out on a date.”

“I might be inclined to go with you,” he yawned, “if you’d just admit you’re asking me out on a date…”

“Fine,” Emma slammed the book shut and clambered up on top of him, braiding her fingers through his, planting her knees on either side of his hips. “Adam,” she batted her eyelashes coyly, “will you go out to a club with me on Friday night please?”

With a smarmy roll of his eyes and an impatient click of his tongue, Adam offered her a put-upon shrug. “If you insist…”

“Ugh, _seriously,_ fuck you,” Emma whinged, releasing him and flopping back to her spot, grabbing her book and rolling to her side, turning her back on him with a toss of her hair. He stared at her for a long moment, smiling silently to himself, before spooning against her, again hooking his chin into the crook of her neck.

“Ahh,” he breathed against her cheek as she absently snuggled closer, “opium and the opera…”

Friday evening blew in on a rush of early February rain; Nemesis watched the drops dance their way down her bedroom window from his perch on the sill while Emma crimped and coiffed in front of her bathroom mirror. She’d twisted the violet locks of her hair into tiny fishbone braids, cinching the ends with shining elastic bands before leaving the rest of her unruly waves to their natural devices. Her scoop neck tunic was just flashy enough, the silver detailing catching the light as she bent to zip her boots into place. She straightened up to find Adam leaning casually in her bedroom doorway, his eyes crawling appreciatively over her form and figure. “Jesus!” she gasped with a giggle. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“You’re the one who’s always said knocking isn’t necessary,” he spoke plainly, unmoved and unmoving as she crossed the carpet to stand toe to toe with him.

“You don’t need to knock,” she confirmed with an air of pseudo-stern scorn, “but you do realize you shave a year off my life every time you skulk in here like that.” She brushed her lips against his in a playful peck.

“You know,” he drawled flatly, “if my… _skulking_ … truly has such ill an effect on your health…”

“Oh, don’t get all pissy,” she interrupted, kissing him again with more force and affection. “You know I love and appreciate every time you come over. I’m just saying, a quick ‘Hey, Em, I’m here’ when you walk through the door…”

“And when have I ever called you Em?”

“… okay, a ‘Hey, _Emmaline_ , I’m here’ when you walk through the door might spare me some heart failure and kick our nights off to a less grumbly start…” Adam rolled his eyes at her back as she grabbed her mobile from its charger, pointedly ignoring the amber glare from across the room. He watched her zip her bag shut, flip her hair over her shoulder on a breeze of sweet plum, and took her hand when she offered it. “Come on, handsome, I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

He’d passed the small restaurant and arcade on several of his treks down Guadalupe, but had never actually ventured inside. He ushered Emma to the bar with a hand at the small of her back, taking a seat on the stool next to hers. She flushed adorably as he ordered her a Bushmills Honey with a Smithwick’s chaser, then dropped a flirty wink at his smirk of mild admiration as she swallowed the sweet burn in a graceful gulp. He listened with aloof interest to her chirping chatter about her shift the previous night, about Amy’s excitement for her impending ski trip, about the brief phone conversation she’d had with her mother before falling into bed. As she spoke, a few of the men drifting past the bar gave her a hearty once over; if she noticed, she gave no sign. Adam noticed, however, and before he’d realized it, he’d placed a possessive hand on her thigh, his fingertips caressing the tender skin just above the hemline of her skirt.

By the time the house lights dimmed and the band took the stage, the small establishment was packed with patrons. Adam willingly gave up his seat to a giddily grateful young woman who’d met up with her companions late; Emma was only too happy to uncross her legs and allow him to sidle into the vee between them. She nuzzled into his hair as he leaned back against her, shivering deliciously as his palms came to rest casually on her knees. She’d declined the offer of a second drink, wanting to experience his reactions to the people and the music with a clear head; she giggled every time he turned to her, dipping his tongue between her lips to taste the sweetness of her soda.

The set was far from perfect, a sour note here and there, frequent feedback squelching through the amps as the group transitioned from song to song. But Emmaline could feel the energy and appreciation vibrating beneath Adam’s skin and she wondered, not for the first time, what he himself might look like up on the stage. She could picture him, surrounded by smoke and sound, the Gretsch hanging from his neck. She could see his eyes sliding closed as he caressed the strings with the skilled care of a lifelong lover, the sheen of perspiration shining on his skin in the open neck of his shirt. The sway in his strong, slim hips, the tension in his muscular thighs. The way his head would fall back when the music floated from his fingertips, the slack in his jaw as his creation breathed its perfection into the air around him.

She knew the image filled his head as well when he leaned back to dust a soft kiss to her cheek. “Very flattering,” he chuckled quietly, “my gorgeous little groupie…”

The two were near lost in their own special intoxication when the last note of the last song reverberated heavy from the speakers, squinting into the sudden bright of the overhead lights. Emma sighed softly as Adam braided his fingers through hers, tugging her from the stool and leading her towards the exit. She caught the eye of the young woman who had taken his seat beside her, and she smiled broadly as the girl gestured to him and offered her an enthusiastic thumbs up. Nodding and tucking her hair behind her ear, she raised her chin a notch and squeezed his hand as she followed in his footsteps.

Adam’s fingers had just closed around the handle of the front door when a resounding crash filled the air, followed by the merry tinkling of broken glass. A heartbeat later, a gruffly barked “mother _fucker_!” turned their heads, and Emma’s eyes widened in mild alarm. The burly barback working the taps had apparently dropped the empties he’d been hauling towards the recycle bin; he now knelt on the alcohol dampened tile, clutching his fist around a crimson flow of dripping blood. “Joey, get my goddamn keys, man, this fucker is gonna need stitches…”

Years of training and experience kicked in, and Emma took a step towards the stranger, her name and qualifications hovering on her lips. But they were choked off by a twinge of pain radiating up from her wrist as Adam’s grip tightened on her, vice-like, goosebumps flocking over her skin at the sound of her name bursting from his mouth in a hissing whisper. “ _Emmaline…”_

Her stomach roiled briefly as she turned to face him once more. “Adam… oh, God… Adam…”

His skin was pasty pale, drawn tight over every angle of his face. His brows were knit into a menacing scowl that cast a dark and sinister shadow over the hollow of his eyes. Pupil and iris had merged into one, leaving inky black pools of raw and angry hunger staring back at her, and his fangs were sharp and shining behind the grimace that twisted his lips. His limbs were shaking, he was sweating, and before she knew it, he was hauling her out into the late night drizzle without a thought or a word. The Jag was in sight, only a few blocks away, but before she could take a breath her vision jerked abruptly as Adam took a sharp left, dragging her into the dark of the alleyway. There was a dumpster on the right; her palms skittered against the rough brick of building as he shoved her into the narrow space of privacy it offered. “Adam…”

“Shut up, Emmaline…” his snarl was a blast of icy breeze against her cheek as he pinned her with his body, his feet kicking her legs apart as his hands slid greedily down her stomach, dragging at her skirt.

“Adam, please,” she grabbed frantically at his wrists, trying in vain to pull his grip away, to push the thin material back down to cover her thighs. “Please… calm down… take a breath…”

“ _Shut UP, Emmaline…”_

“Adam, please, sweetie… please…” Tears of alarm began to scald her cheeks, her breath boiling out of her in hitching, halting sobs. “Not here, Adam, please. I love you… I love you. I know what you need, I do… but not here, not like this. Adam, please… we’ll be caught…”

_EMMALINE!_

The unspoken roar echoed between her ears, long and loud and terrifyingly cold. His hand fisted her hair, pulling her head back on her neck until it rested on his shoulder, until she could see the moonlight glinting off the dangerously defined points of his incisors.  

_Shut your fucking mouth._

Shivering, shaking, she obeyed, biting her lips together between her teeth and tasting the salt of her fear on her skin.

With a quiet, savage grunt of impatient approval, Adam let go her hair and yanked the delicate fabric of her dress up over her waist, dispatching her panties with one elegant and efficient flick of his wrist. The arousal that had been slowly building within her all night long had not completely fled, and he dipped his fingers into her with deliberate determination. She convulsed beneath his touch, as much in panic as pleasure, and he stroked her savagely, her body simply one more instrument from which to wring the exact tune and tempo he desired.

Emma fixed her stare on the cold, wet wall in front of her, her fingertips dipping into the grooves of mortar as she clawed reflexively for balance. She could hear the metallic rattle of his belt buckle as he released it, felt his knuckles graze the small of her back as he yanked down his zipper. Her eyes darted frantically to the end of the alley, where a few pedestrians passed by without so much as a glance their direction. She’d only just breathed a timid sigh of relief when his arm snaked around her shoulders, pulling her back against him as he invaded her with one quick, brutal thrust. Her breath left her in a violent rush, her forehead bumping against the brick as her head fell forward at the painfully perfect rush of sensation. “Adam…”

“Ohhh, Emmaline,” he groaned, burying his face in her hair as her heat enveloped him, bled into him, surging on the pulse of her hammering heart. “Don’t fucking move.”

It took every ounce of strength she had, but she complied, tears of tension continuing to course down her cheeks as he rocked into her, harder and harder, his hands gripping her like iron, his cock solid as stone and just as cold. She braced herself as best she could, closing her eyes and biting down on her lip as his breath bellowed over the nape of her neck in blast after frigid blast. The images that danced behind her lids were dark and despondent, full of violent struggle and gut-wrenching despair, thoughts of _hunger_ and _hunt_ and _conquest_ and _catch_. She could hear the howl of the wind and the slapping of rain on cobblestone, the scuffle of feet as they struggled for purchase, and the sour smell of acrid, terror-soaked sweat filled her nostrils. She could see wide-blown eyes full of shock and disbelief, feel hands scrabbling over her like panicked rats, trying to push her face away. And as his arms crushed her closer to him, as his mouth groped along her jawline to her neck, a fleeting thought that hadn’t occurred to her in months tumbled unbidden through her mind.

_He could kill me. He could actually kill me._

A sudden peal of girlish laughter echoed down the alleyway, and again Emma’s eyes darted to the sidewalk they’d left just moments before. A small crowd of collegiates ambled lazily past, the young men with burnt orange jerseys over strong, well-defined shoulders, the ladies holding cellphones in their graceful, manicured hands.

_If you’re scared… if you’re really THAT scared…_

She squeezed her eyes shut against her scalding tears, turned her head on her neck to press her cheek against the wall in front of her.

_Please go away. Please, please go away._

That small, silent plea broke through the blinding fog that had settled over Adam’s brain, and he spared a glance of his own through the gap between the dumpster and the building. He bared his teeth at the bystanders, willing them on their way, the rhythmic pumping of his hips against Emma’s never missing a beat. Once they’d moved out of sight in their slow, shuffling gait, he slid one hand up to grip the delicate curve of her throat, the other caressing its way up the inside of her thigh, finding and fondling the soft, silky folds where her body swallowed his. “Emmaline,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear, “my lovely little Emmaline…” A broken sob spilled from her lips as her head fell back against his shoulder once more.

_Adam… there you are…_

The rush of relief left her limp in his arms, she exhaled a weak yet welcoming whimper at the sting of his fangs finally piercing her flesh. He winced at the bitter tang of her fading fear, only relaxing when it was replaced by the sweet, honeyed flow of her release. He drank quickly, carefully, as he spilled inside her, taking a moment to watch twin trails of scarlet trace their way over her porcelain skin before catching them with his tongue, soothing the punctures with calm, cool kisses. He withdrew from her slowly, turning her in his embrace and bundling her against his chest. He stroked his palm over her hair as he rocked her gently, closing his eyes as the flood of her tangled emotions soaked the front of his shirt. “Emmaline…” he whispered, lifting her face to his with a finger beneath her chin.

“Adam,” she sniffled with childlike bravery, “can we please go home?”

His brow furrowed as the images welling up in her brain spilled into his own: the cat curled comfortably on the back of her sofa, the decades-old quilt draped over her footboard, the nest of pillows and linens awaiting in his unmade bed, the light of the full moon spilling through the circle window of his attic, the pops in the velour and the worn bald corners of the Victorian in the loft. A mish-mash of comforting confusion, his life bleeding in to hers to redefine the word.  

“My sweet Emmaline…”

He tucked her protectively under his shoulder, holding her close and offering her support as they walked quietly to the car. She stared out the window with a quivering lip until the gentle pull of his hand guided her to lay with her head in his lap. She looked up at him in mild surprise when he eased the Jag into her apartment parking lot; he simply gave her hair a tender tug before guiding her to her door. The cat watched with detached disinterest as he pulled her dress over her head, easing her into her bed before disrobing himself and sliding beneath the sheets beside her. She wrapped herself around him with a nervous desperation, her wet and red-rimmed gaze full of plea. “I’m so sorry…”

“Oh… Emmaline…” His expression twisted in misery as he traced a thumb over the small abrasion above her eyebrow, the swollen curve of her lip where her teeth had worried it bloody. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. “I’m so very, very sorry. For scaring you… for hurting you…”

She smiled sadly at him through sleepy eyes, shaking her head to cut him off. “It was my idea, remember? I played their music, I brought up the show, _I_ asked _you_ out. You were in that place because of me, you had temptation shoved in your face because of me.”

“Emmaline,” he frowned at her, “you’re not seriously taking responsibility for this…”

“I should!” she insisted as he wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “It was a bad idea.”

“That I could have refused.”

“It was thoughtless of me to bring it up in the first place…”

“Stop it!” He hissed, covering her mouth with his hand. “None of this was your fault, you have nothing to apologize for, and I’ll not entertain another word!” He released her with a shame-filled shudder. “The onus was on me, my darling, to remain calm, to keep control. I failed you miserably, and I’m so very sorry…”

“Shhhh,” she pulled him close, tangling her legs through his and pressing her heart against his chest. “I forgive you,” she whispered fiercely into his mouth. “Do you hear me? I love you, Adam. I really, really love you, and I forgive you.” She could see the struggle raging behind his eyes and she shook her head once more. ”Don’t apologize anymore. Don’t say anything else. Just hold me… please. That’s all I need in the whole wide world to be okay. Just hold me…”

_How strange_ , he thought to himself as he crushed her in his embrace, _that it’s the only thing in the world_ I _need to be okay..._

It wasn’t long before she was asleep, adrift in a sea of more pleasant memories he unlocked for her with ease – a bluesy bonfire on a southern California beach, the scent and the sound of the salty surf heavy in the air, the sweet, mellow strains of acoustic guitar floating up into the star-filled sky. He brushed his lips against her forehead, closed his eyes to better savor her lilting sigh.

“I love you, Emmaline,” he whispered to the darkness.

When the darkness offered no reply, he lifted her small, delicate hand from where it lay draped across his stomach, clearing the blood from the thin, stinging scrapes etched into her skin with slow, gentle sweeps of his tongue.


	16. Chapter 16

“Say, hey, pretty lady! I knew you’d be back!”

Emma was tracing a fingertip along the polished ivory of middle C when the booming voice of the shopkeeper invaded her reverie. He thumped across the wooden floor of his secondhand store, absently hitching up his belt beneath his glorious potbelly before running his hand through his squirrely brown hair. “And without your little friend,” he quirked a theatrically sympathetic smile. “Now, I’m not one to turn down patronage, but I gotta say, I’m kinda glad you left her behind. She was a bit of an old wet blanket…”

Emma exhaled a small, polite laugh. After all, it wasn’t as if she could argue with the man.

Amy had been less than thrilled when Emma had eased her car into one of the spaces on South Congress earlier that afternoon. “You know, Em,” she sniffed as the pair walked the strip, their collars turned up against the weakening wisps of the late-winter wind, “I’m really glad you called. But when you said ‘shopping’, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh, come on, Aim,” Emma hip-checked the blonde as she pulled open the door to the thrift shop on her right. “You’ve got to admit – this is fun!”

“Fun, right,” Amy drolled, shaking the cold out of her hair as Emma dove into the racks of vintage clothing that lined the front of the store. She stared blankly at the boat neck mini-dress Emma plucked from the selection, reaching out to finger the chiffon as her friend held the garment up to her chest, unaffected by Emma’s obvious and expectant enthusiasm. “What?”

“Cute, right?” Emma gave a flirty little twist. “Some knee high boots or some ballet flats…” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “What do you think?”

Amy scrunched her nose. “I think it used to belong to somebody else.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Which means somebody else wore it.”

Emma rolled her eyes, dropping dress and hanger to her side. “Good God, Aim, it’s not like they put it out here without washing it first.”

“So?” Amy stared at her, unblinking. “Still means somebody else wore it.”

“So?” Emma volleyed back easily. “Other people wear the scrubs for the OR all the time, you’d still put them on if somebody code brown’s your uniform.”

“That is different,” Amy laughed. “Those scrubs are washed by the hospital, with the expectation that they’ll be worn in a clean if not sterile environment. They are not just tossed in Uncle Jed’s Maytag for the February floor sale.” Emma laughed as well, draping the dress over her arm as she continued to scrape hangers along the bracket next to her. “Besides, I’d walk around in an isolation gown with my ass on display if somebody code browned me and there was nothing else to wear, and you know you would, too.” The two continued to make their way through the maze of merchandise, Amy stealing glances at the relaxed happiness on the other young woman’s face with small envious, if faintly confused, grins. “Since when are you so into antiquing anyway?”

_Since somebody told me I’ve quite the eye for it…_

The thought made Emma’s mouth curve in a small, secret smile, a kaleidoscope of images filling her mind: blue eyes lost in memory as they scanned the pages of a first edition Hemmingway, thin lips smirking at the red Panasonic auto stop tape recorder, long graceful fingers raking through silky curls over an exasperated growl: “What the fuck makes you think I need a dining table?” She shivered a little, remembering the meal he’d made of her, her nude body sprawled across that very table’s polished surface.

“I don’t know,” she replied with an airy sigh. “I guess I’ve just acquired a new appreciation for things from long ago and far away.”

“Oh, God, just gag me with a pitchfork, why don’t you?” Amy pulled a face before turning her attention to the display cabinet full of costume jewelry.

Emma had just emerged from the fitting room, the soft fabric of the mini dress fluttering against her knees, when she saw it. Upright against the wall, sturdy and shining even underneath its fine veil of dust, the lid open to expose the eighty-eight keys of ebony and ivory. The polished wood was vertical lines of mingled brown and blonde and black that captured the light of the yellowing overhead bulbs; with the broad bench tucked close to its belly, it sat in regal, beckoning silence. She crossed to it slowly, her breath caught in her chest, her hand extending to touch one white key in gentle wonder. The high A had just faded into silence when a voice at her elbow made her startle and jump.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

Emma turned to face the man behind her, offering him a small and slightly shaken smile. “She is,” she agreed amiably.

“She’s got some history to her, too,” he grinned, sliding easily into his pitch. “Came out of Hamburg in eighteen-sixty something. Settled somewhere in Newport, got herself tickled by Duke and Count and Screamin’ Jay themselves. ‘Course, I ain’t got printed proof of that, just the word of the fella who moved her in, so I don’t figure that when I’m naming my price…”

“Naming your price for what?” Amy appeared at Emma’s side, a pair of velvet peep-toe pumps hanging from one hand. Her brow furrowed as she eyed piano and proprietor with equal skepticism. “Oh, jeez, buddy, don’t even waste your time. Even if management didn’t have them blacklisted, she’s barely got room in her apartment for a stick of gum, let alone a great beast like this, right Em?”

Emma turned her carefully constructed neutrality to Amy’s gaze, saw the yes-I’m-getting-you-out-of-this-sales-shtick-you’re-welcome grin looking back at her. “Right,” she agreed softly.

“Oh, well, my mistake,” the older man quipped, professionally polite but with an unmistakable air of affront. “I ain’t one for the hard sell – you just looked quite taken with the lady here.”

“Well, she is a lovely instrument, that’s for sure,” Emma offered thinly.

“Yeah,” Amy wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders. “Sort of makes you wish you could play, huh?”

The shopkeeper’s expression clouded. “Oh… you don’t play?”

Emma shook her head, her eyes wandering back to the exposed ivory. “Not a note.”

She’d dropped Amy off a few hours later, her arms full of SoCo merchants bags and her belly full of Home Slice pizza. Adjusting her sunglasses in the light of the setting sun, Emma had eased her car back into downtown traffic, pausing to pull into the U-Haul parking lot with a small determined smile on her lips. Now, once again standing in the back corner of the worn and weathered store, she turned that smile to the face of the retailer. “You sure you don’t play, darlin’?” he asked with unimposing curiosity, “because you sure give this old girl one sweet look of love.”

“I don’t,” Emma confirmed with another shake of her head. “But I know someone who does.”

“Well,” the fellow rocked back a bit on his heels, “must be a special someone.”

“Yeah,” Emma could feel the flush of color rising to her cheeks. Clearing her throat, she narrowed her eyes in friendly scrutiny. “How much?”

The haggling was calm and mercifully quick, and somehow Emma knew that, if she asked, Adam would assure her the purchase was a steal. The longer and slightly messier struggle was convincing the retailer to load the piano into the trailer hitched to her bumper. He’d called his teenage son to the floor for help, and both now stood scowling faintly at the rig through the storefront window. “I don’t know, ma’am,” the younger offered a bit sheepishly. “Your canvas and rope there might well do the job, but we got a covered truck out back that’s a guaranteed safe transport.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Emma offered a sweet smile. “It’s not a far drive.”

“Well, hell, little lady, why not give me the address and let me check?” his father puffed his chest a bit. “If it’s less than ten miles, we’ll fix you up free of charge. And besides, delivery includes me an’ junior here to do the heavy lifting for you on the other side.”

Emma lifted her chin a notch. “I have someone to do the heavy lifting for me on the other side, thank you very much.”

Small, diamond-bright stars were just starting to wink overhead as she watched the pair bundle her purchase into the flatbed, making certain that every inch of it was snugly covered by the protective tarp, every corner lashed secure and immobile. She thanked them warmly, then refused to allow them to give back the twenty she pressed into the younger man’s palm before sliding into the front seat behind the wheel. Her fingers tapped along with the tunes on the radio as she headed out of town, sparing a glance for her cargo every few moments with an excited twinkle in her eye.

Adam was waiting on the back porch when she eased her CX-7 alongside the Jaguar, lounging on the steps and staring up at the sky. He rose to greet her with a glower, grabbing the lapels of her jacket and pulling her roughly against him as soon as she was within reach. “You’re late,” he grumbled.

“I missed you, too,” she breathed as he drew her parted lips to his mouth.

The kiss burned long and lush, her hands fluttering to tangle in his hair as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing every inch of her body against his. She was breathless when they separated, floating, but the exasperated click of his tongue and his cold huff of irascibility brought her back to Earth in a hurry. “Oh, Emmaline, for fuck’s sake…”

“What?” she queried, wide-eyed and innocent, following his gaze to the canvas mass tethered behind her car.

“Don’t give me that, you know bloody well ‘what’!” He released her with a growl, moving to glare at her load with an impatient hand fisted on his hip. “What the fuck is that?” She bit back her giggles as she tiptoed cautiously to his side. “More ridiculously asinine zombie bullshit to clutter up my house?”

“Ridiculously asinine zombie bullshit?” she gasped with mock offense. “What are you talking about, ridiculously asinine zombie bullshit?”

He rolled his eyes at her affectation. “Oh, I don’t know… let’s start with the china and that monstrous cabinet you dragged in here…”

“Hey,” she squinted at him playfully, “if I had room for that at my place I’d have put it there.”

“If you didn’t have room for it at your place,” he snapped, “you shouldn’t have bought the fucking thing!”

“I’ll never find one at that awesome price again!” she whined, digging her teeth into her lips to kill the smile that threatened. “And it’s not like you _don’t_ have the room…”

“That utterly useless vanity chair in the bathroom?” Adam cut her off with a sneer

“A vanity without a vanity chair is utterly useless; how am I supposed to get ready to go anywhere without it?”

“You never get ready to go anywhere from here!” Adam shouted.

“Well, maybe one day I’ll have to get ready to go somewhere from here,” she simpered saucily. “And if I do, I’ll be prepared. You’re never in the bathroom enough for it to be in your way anyway…”

“That obnoxious floor lamp in the loft?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I can’t see in the dark!” Emma whined. “My toes couldn’t take it anymore!”

“The dining table?”

“HEY!” she pointed a warning finger at him with a frown. “You _love_ that dining table!”

Adam pinched his lips together, glanced down at his feet in contemplative recollection. “I might love that dining table.”

“See?” Emma hummed sweetly, sidling up to him and slipping her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. “It’s not so bad…”

“But Emmaline,” he groaned, “you know how I feel about this…”

“Yes, I do,” she sing-songed in mild frustration. “And yet, I brought something else.” She released him, crunching through the gravelly dust of the yard to pull a pair of hedge trimmers from the hodge-podge assortment of tools in the bin by the porch. “Worth a look, maybe?” Adam stood still a long moment, staring her down on principle before taking the clippers from her and clambering into the hitch. She leaned along the side rail with a smile, propping her chin on her crossed arms as she watched him cut the tethers that held her treasure in place. His eyes found hers as his hand fisted a corner of the canvas, then rolled away in irritation at the giddy glow of her grin. He gave the tarp a hearty yank, and Emma held her breath as she watched his jaw drop ever so slightly.

“Oh,” his voice was soft, reverent. “Oh… Emmaline…”

She captured her bottom lip between her teeth, her heart pounding just a bit in her chest as she watched his hands caress the curves and angles of the top and sideboards, the brass of the hinges in the lid, the smooth surface of the fallboard before flipping it back to expose the keys. His fingertips traced along the music rack before hovering briefly over the ivory. Slowly, he pressed several at once, and the E chord echoed into the night. His eyes closed in ecstasy, and Emma shivered in happiness, clapping her hands as he played another, D, F sharp, A, and G. “She’s even in tune!”

The look he gifted her with was devilish delight. “ _He_ most certainly is.”

Ten minutes later, the instrument was flush against the attic wall, tucked in the corner where any light that might spill through the window would not reach. Emma unzipped her jacket and let it fall to the floor before kicking off her shoes and padding over to the bench in her sock feet. Adam was on his hands and knees beneath the key bed, checking the screws that held the pedals in place. Once satisfied, he climbed up to stand on the seat; Emma leaned against his legs in delighted amusement as he flipped open the top board, peering down at the guts of wire and wood and felt. He was smiling when he eased the lid shut, stepping and then sitting down beside her. “He’s a marvel,” he breathed softly, taking her neck in his hands and bringing her mouth to his once more. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Emma sighed, gazing at him through sleepy, smitten eyes. “I figured I owed you a Valentine’s gift you’d actually appreciate.” Adam chuckled at the blush that flooded her skin at the memory, and he pressed an affectionate kiss to her forehead.

She’d deliberately signed up to work that night, believing it best to leave those who might have reason to wonder thinking that, for her, the holiday was still just another day. But her apartment was settled and secured, her bag packed and hidden away in her trunk, and even the roses (one perfect red and one perfect white) that had appeared at the nurse’s station out of nowhere fit into her purse before prying eyes could see. She took her time on the drive to his house, pulling into the truck stop for a quick bite to eat. The sun was shining high when she finally arrived, and Adam was deeply asleep in his tangle of sheets. Emma slipped into the shower, washing the hospital from her hair and skin before crawling across the mattress to join him. He didn’t wake, but his arms circled her possessively and she cuddled into his embrace, shivering at the nuzzle of his nose into the damp, fragrant depths of her hair.

She awoke hours later to the silky sweet sounds of a Spanish guitar, and she stretched her arms over her head with a yawn and a grin. Bouncing from the bed, she dug into the depths of her duffle until her hand closed around the pink and black bag. The stockings were smooth lace, pale pink detailed with tiny heart-shaped eyelets, the belt and panties and negligee were royal red silk. The ensemble hugged snugly to every curve and left little to the imagination; she covered it all with a matching short and sheer robe. Tousling her hair, putting her rebel locks of the same shining scarlet on prominent display, she took a deep breath and tiptoed out to find her vampire.

He was asprawl on the Victorian, his fingers stroking sweetly over his latest acquisition: a portly Spaniard almost identical to the one he’d showed her in Venice. The melody was slow and sensual; he never missed a note when she leaned over him from behind, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She smiled at the blanket spread over the floor between the two sofas, inhaled deeply the aroma of the Chinese takeout that waited in the center. “You spoil me, sir…”

He continued to play as she ate, barely sparing her a glance every now and again as he shifted from major to natural to minor and back again, the music flowing from him like breath. Emma didn’t mind; she was starving and, as ever, enamored by how well he knew her tastes – he’d ordered her spring rolls instead of eggrolls, noodles instead of rice, and her chicken was just the perfect blend of sweet and spicy. Even the song was perfectly suited, the final note fading out as she swallowed her last bite and set her refuse aside. The two regarded each other for a long moment of silence, until she shifted on her knees to lay her head against his thigh. “My roses are beautiful, thank you,” she breathed quietly.

He gave a pert nod, then caught the sleeve of her robe between two fingers. “This for me?” he asked evenly, rubbing the material absently; Emma gave an enthusiastic nod before rising to her feet. In her best burlesque tease, she loosened her sash and shed the garment with slow sensual rolls of her shoulders, letting it flutter silently to the floor. Adam raised his hand and gave his finger a twirl; taking the cue, Emma spun slowly on her toes, offering him the full, enticing view. She chewed on her lip, batted her lashes coyly when she faced him once more. “Do you like it?”

Adam took a deep breath, held it a moment, his eyes holding hers as he answered sincerely. “No.”

Emma blanched in surprise. “No?”

“No,” Adam repeated, an impatient edge to the word. “Take it off.”

The command might have titillated her, but Emma’s brow stitched in a nervous frown. There was no hunger in his tone, no urgency, no indication at all that he was inflamed by or even interested in her erotic offering. He sounded exasperated, irritated, even a hint disgusted. “A-Adam?” she stammered anxiously.

“You heard me, Emmaline,” his gaze was cool, but not completely unkind. “Take it off.”

One small, graceful hand plucked uneasily at one spaghetti strap, the other at the short, lacy hem. “Wha… I… are you mad? I don’t understand…”

Adam’s sigh was long and weary, but before it could die on the air, he’d leapt to his feet, catching her shoulders in his hands and whisking her to the wall, trapping her against it. “Tell me this, my lovely little fool,” his lips ghosted against hers as he spoke, “would you paint the Lotus Temple in such shades of red and pink?” He grazed the tip of his nose against her cheek. “Would you drape the Taj Mahal in silk or satin or lace?” He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent and nipping lightly at her skin. “Would you line the Mona Lisa’s eyes in black and rouge her cheeks and lips?” Emma mewled quietly at the sensation of his hands drawing the silk up her thighs, over her waist, and higher. She raised her arms as he swept the flimsy lingerie over her head, tossing it aside before fisting the delicate belt and snapping it easily to useless strands. It pulled her stockings down her legs as it fell to the floor, and he knelt in front of her to yank them off. His lips were teasing the ticklish curve below her navel as his fingers found the bows at each of her hips, and with a simple tug, she was left in nothing but her skin.

He rose to his full height with fluid grace, taking a step back, then another. His eyes crawled appreciatively over every inch of her figure, and Emma’s hands curled against the drywall beneath her palms, her back pressing against the cool surface to keep her on her feet. “This, sweet Emmaline,” he purred softly, “this is you at your most perfect, bare and beautiful and trembling before me.” He closed the distance between them, one denim-clad thigh pressing lightly between her legs. “So small,” he whispered, brushing the tip of his nose through the wisps of hair that swept her forehead. “So soft,” he trailed his fingers over her skin, feather light, over her breasts, down her ribcage to her stomach. “So vulnerable.” His fingertips found every thin, silvery scar his fangs had left in their wake, the memory of each nip and sip rushing to fill his mind and spill over into hers. “So…” he flickered his tongue deliberately over his lips, “delectably mouth-watering.” He skated a fingernail around the dip of her navel, and chuckled warmly as her supple flesh hitched and hiccupped in response. “This, darling girl,” he breathed, “this is all I want to see, all I need to see. There isn’t anything you could put on this body that could make you more exquisite, more appealing, more delicious.”

Emma closed her eyes, tilted her head to a more inviting angle, her nails digging grooves in the plaster beneath them. “Adam…”

His mouth hovered just above hers, a teasing promised kiss. “Well… maybe there is one thing…”

His arm moved behind him, his fingers dipping into the back pocket of his jeans. Emma’s eyes flew wide in surprised delight as he held the necklace up over tented fingers for her inspection, shining silver catching the light in bright, brilliant flashes. The twin rubies were small, perfectly round and red as blood, and she tucked them into the hollow of her throat as soon as she’d clasped the choker in place. Her fingertips traced over them reverently as she looked shyly up into his eyes. “It’s perfect!”

Adam slanted his head in scrutiny, pursing his lips in faint disapproval. “Not quite.” Catching the chain in his own fingers, he shifted it a few inches to the right; Emma shivered as she realized the stones would align almost perfectly with the fading scars he’d left on her neck. “There now,” he murmured, aroused approval dripping from his words, “that is perfect…”

His soft hum of contentment breezed over her brow, pulling her back to the present, and when Emma lifted her head to look up into his eyes, she knew he’d wandered into the memory as well. His eyes were filled with the same smoky fire that had burned in them as he’d undressed himself, collected her into his arms, carried her back to the picnic blanket spread across the rug of the loft. His tongue played at the corner of his mouth just as it had before teasing its way into hers; when she moved closer to kiss him, the sound of their mingled sighs as he’d filled her echoed in her ears at the first touch of his cool lips to hers. “So, my grumpy Valentine,” she cooed softly, laying her cheek against his shoulder, “what do you say? Do you like it?”

He sniffed a warm laugh through his nose. “I do,” he confirmed, laying his fingers reverently against the keys before pressing them home, filling the air with a low, natural chord.

A few moments of quiet playing, and Emma shifted, watching his expression curiously as the instrument whispered its secrets into his fingertips. “Can you tell me about it?” she asked in a murmur.

Adam cocked an eyebrow of appreciation at her interest. “Steinway,” he began, his touch continuing to draw sweet singing from the piano, “1874. Status symbol… the original owners never even played him.” Emma settled more fully against him, as if she were a child drinking in a favorite bedtime tale. “Landed in Philadelphia in 1911, with the deaf girl and her husband.”

Emma smiled in silent wonder. “The deaf girl?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Adam nodded absently. “Drove her iron-jawed aunt half mad, always sneaking into the parlor to ‘touch the magic’.” His fingers danced over the keys, filling the air with an achingly sweet melody. “She was fifteen when the music master came calling to teach her cousin, sixteen when her natural talent enticed him to teach her as well.” He pressed closer to Emma’s arm and leg, letting the enraptured energy that had been left behind long before vibrate from the ivory, through him, into her. She accepted it with a sigh, her head returning to its rest against his shoulder. “She was eighteen when he asked for her hand in marriage…”

Pachelbel’s _Canon in D major_ echoed through the instrument’s broad belly; the scent of the calla lilies she carried filled Emma’s nostrils.

“Their great-grandson started thumping away when he was only three. Had a pretty good handle on it by seven, was a master at ten. Lost the damper pedal during the move when he was twelve.” As he continued, Pachelbel’s peaceful melody melted into the somber song of Mozart’s _Requiem_ , D minor. “He was twenty when he left for Khe Sanh in ’68. They couldn’t bear to look at it after that, gave it to the high school.”

Through his mind’s eye, Emma could see them, destroyed yet dignified, mother sobbing softy into a lace handkerchief as father shook the strong and steady hand of the grateful choral director. The breeze was heavy with the scent of early autumn leaves and fresh blacktop, she could hear the Five Stairsteps crooning from the open window of a Ford Cortina, promising that things were going to get easier. From there a swirl of sensation: the syrupy scent of flamingo pink bubble gum and the enticing aroma of fresh mimeograph, girlish giggles above playfully plunked out _Chopsticks_ , the dazzling cool spill of a solo spotlight, the warmth of bodies leaning against the sideboards, killing time before Trig or Chemistry or AP Spanish. Adam tilted his head, laying his cheek against the soft hair of her crown as she snuggled against him. “The program lost its funding seven years ago.” He kissed her temple gently as she nodded, looking up at him with a sad little smile.

“And now he’s here,” she concluded quietly.

“And now he’s here.”

His fingers stilled over the keys, and he dropped his hands briefly to his lap. Emma, lost in thought, extended one slender finger, pressing lightly on high F. Taking a breath, Adam slowly wound his arms around her, sliding his palms down to move her hands into place. “Wrists up,” he instructed, gentle but firm. “Fingers relaxed… there’s a girl…” Emma’s face flushed in wonder as he guided her, proud and patient, through the same simple scales she’d warmed up to in her own choir days. High, medium, low, and back again, until the steady rhythm mirrored that of her beating heart. A momentary pause, and then his hands covered hers, and she closed her eyes as the adagio of Beethoven’s _Sonata Number 8_ …

… my _adagio of_ S _onata Number 8_ …

… echoed up into the rafters.

Silence lingered a long moment after the final note had faded away, Adam’s arms still around her, her head resting against him just beneath his chin. “That’s always been my favorite,” she mused in an awe-filled murmur.

“I love you, Emmaline.”

Emma raised her head slowly, her eyes wide and hopeful, the corner of her lip caught between her teeth.

Adam’s expression was shadowed yet soft, settled into an odd sort of sullen serenity. “I do,” he muttered firmly, his gaze holding hers full of stubborn resolve. The air between them crackled briefly with a calm, quiet electricity, until he bowed his head in a curt but not unkind nod, and turned back to the piano. With a quiet, regal sniff, he placed his hands on the keyboard once more, refusing to look at her again as he resumed playing. The tune he had written that had become a kind of siren’s call for both of them rang richly in the tiny attic, but nothing could drown out the hushed, husky whisper that resonated in her head.

_Emmaline… I love you…_

She rested her head against his shoulder once more. “Adam…” her smile was sweet, shining, and not at all surprised, “I know you do.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Hey, Em, you’re on 38 tonight, right?” the reedy voice of the weekend unit clerk (Sandy? Mandy? Emma made a mental note to check the woman’s ID badge the next time she passed the desk) echoed down the corridor. “There’s a Dr. DuPont calling.”

“Yes! Finally!” Emma closed the chart she’d been scribbling in and snapped the wireless phone from the holster at her hip. “38, yes, please!” A second later, the handset was chirping away in her palm. “Five East, this is Emma. Dr. DuPont, thank you for calling me back. I’m bedside for Eddie Matisse tonight, twenty-eight year old male admitted around one o’clock this afternoon with a kidney stone...” She rattled off her report protocol, the patient’s complaints, her assessment findings. “Mr. Matisse is now one hour post PO hydrocodone and still reporting a pain level of 8. I was wondering if PCA might be a better option for him....?”

It took a fair amount of haggling, a flurry of charting, and a hasty phone call to the pharmacy. Finally, orders signed and equipment in place, Emma pressed the control plunger for the IV pump into her sweating and swearing patient’s grasp. “It’s the red button here…” The words were just taking shape on her lips when the man’s thumb slammed down on the knob with all his strength. “Well, okay, you seem to have that down.” She lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, wincing at the feel of the sweat-soaked cotton beneath her palm. “We’ll just let that kick in, then we’ll see if I can’t track you down some dry duds, how about that?”

Forty minutes later, she emerged from room 519 with a stretch and a sigh, draping her stethoscope around her neck as she crossed to the nurse’s station. “I told you,” Amy snickered teasingly as Emma sank down into the chair next to hers, pawing at the pockets of her scrubs, “your kind and generous nature s bound to bite you in the ass sooner or later.” She reached over and plucked the pen that Emma had misplaced out of the tangle of hair piled atop her head; Emma snatched it from her fingers with a scowl. “You never take a Sunday night shift out of the goodness of your heart.” She turned back to her computer as Emma flipped open Matisse’s chart. “What did Mare promise you, anyway?”

“She didn’t promise me anything,” Emma sniffed absently. “Straight trade, she picked up my Tuesday.”

“Hmm,” Amy gave an acquiescing nod. “I’m assuming that gives you a stretch of four.”

Emma’s mouth bowed in a soft smile. “You assume correctly.”

“Uh huh,” Amy leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. “Am I also correct in assuming Mr. Music is similarly unoccupied?”

Emma pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “You know, I’m not sure what his schedule looks like this week…”

“Oh, you are _such_ a goddamn liar,” Amy cut her off with a laugh before resuming her typing.

The two friends bounced around each other for the remainder of their shift, turning patients in their beds, answering call lights, ducking down to Otis’ trailer for a four a.m. cup of coffee. They giggled girlish speculation over the plans that had led Marina to ask Emma for the schedule swap, pointedly noting that Dr. Gabriel was not at his desk that evening, either. And after their cups were empty and they walked their last rounds, Amy casually, almost shyly, mentioned the new FNP working in Ortho: his mocha brown eyes and contagious smile, the South by Southwest itinerary he’d planned for the two of them. If she noticed the occasional outbreak of goosebumps that flocked over Emma’s arms, or the brief, almost afterthought pauses in her strides where she stopped for a heartbeat or two as if to shake off some slight head rush or gut-check, she made no comment.

“So,” she hitched the strap of her bag on her shoulder as she and Emma stepped off the elevator in the parking garage together, “you think your Mr. Music might actually be in town? I mean, South-by… things like that’ve got to be his bread and butter, right?”

“You know, I don’t know,” Emma replied. “He hasn’t mentioned working any of the venues…”

“Great!” Amy grinned, sliding her hands deep into her pockets. “So, if he’s here, maybe we could actually listen… dance… have a drink…”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Emma nodded her head distractedly, trying to focus on her friend’s chatter above the sudden, sharp pull that radiated from the center of her stomach and buzzed along each of her limbs beneath her skin.

“I mean, having Micah there would make it easier, don’t you think? Less pressure, less ‘facing an inquisition’… more like a double-date.”

“Oh, Aim,” Emma wrapped a consoling arm around the petite blonde’s shoulders, “really sorry to burst your bubble. But Adam is so… _not…_ a double-date kind of guy.”

“Okay, so, fine,” Amy tossed her hair out of her face as the pair came to a stop at the rear of her Audi Sportback. “No double-date. But,” she chewed on her lip briefly, “come on, Em. It’s been months. And even if it’s not getting serious,” she groped for words briefly. “It’s serious. And it’s clearly good.”   Emma stammered a little, tucking her hair behind her ear, until Amy reached out to gently touch her elbow. “Look, no pressure, okay? That’s not what I’m trying to do here. I just,” she paused. “I’m tired of acting like I don’t care whether or not I get to meet this guy. He makes you happy, he obviously wants to hang on to you…” She shrugged, fumbling a bit awkwardly with her car keys. “I’d like to meet him, to tell him what a great girl he’s got and how he better not fuck it up.”

Emma laughed a little, her cheeks flushing. “I know.” She inhaled deeply, exhaled a sigh. “Look, I can’t promise South-by. Really, I have no idea whether he’s working or watching or wanting to avoid the whole thing. But I will talk to him, I promise I will.”

“You will?” Amy shifted a bit as Emma nodded sincerely. “And… you don’t feel like I’m pushing, you mean it?”

Emma smiled. “I mean it.”

“Because I don’t want to cause trouble…”

“Eh,” it was Emma’s turn to shrug. “I’m pretty sure he figured the day was coming. I mean, he knows I don’t live in a vacuum.”

“Okay,” Amy grinned uncertainly, “I just don’t want him to feel forced into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

“Oh, honey, trust me,” Emma laughed, “Adam doesn’t do a single, solitary thing he doesn’t damn well want to do.”

“Well, all right then,” the chirp of the Audis alarm echoed across the concrete platform. “No Kerbey Lane? You sure?”

“Nah,” Emma demurred politely. “I gotta get home, feed the cat…”

“Aww, well, give Nem a scritch for me…”

The temperamental tabby was waiting for her, sitting sternly on the counter and flicking his tail to and fro when she pushed open her front door, sniffing the air before she actually stepped into the apartment. He jumped to the floor with a discontented yowl, heading towards the bedroom with his nose in the air. “You know, Nemesis,” she grumbled, dropping her purse and her keys in the spot he’d vacated, “you’ve seen way harder times than these, you fat old grump. I mean, seriously, it’s like the feline Four Seasons around here and you’ve got the whole place to yourself…” Her lecture trailed off as she caught sight of the bed, the wet sticky clump of hairballs in the center of the mattress, the shredded innards of her bedside Kleenex box, the spreading yellow stain that marked the corner of the bed skirt. She stared wearily into the cat’s haughty amber gaze. “Why?”

Too tired to make the trek to the laundry room, she settled for stripping the offending linens and tying them in a plastic trash bag, setting it just outside the patio door. She didn’t even bother remaking the bed properly; once the fitted sheet was in place, she simply wrapped its partner around her shoulders before flopping down onto her pillow for a few hours sleep. She woke before sunset to rush through a shower and refill the food dispenser and litter box, scowling at her pet as she added a healthy portion of catnip to his scratching post. “You _so_ do not deserve this.”

His drowsy, narrowed eyes and rusty purr clearly conveyed that the animal felt otherwise.

The full moon was just starting its trek across the horizon when she eased her car around the corner of Adam’s dilapidated old manor, and her breath caught in her throat when she saw him standing on the back porch, stoic and silent, bathed in its silvery light. Shouldering her bag, she slid from the car and crossed to him, a bounce in her step. “Hi,” she climbed the rickety stairs to dust a kiss to his unresponsive lips.

Adam’s eyes were dark, the corners of his mouth turned down as he closed his fist around the lapel of her blouse. “Where the fuck have you been?” he growled, his tone caught between aloof anger and pouty petulance. “I expected you last night.”

Emma’s expression twisted a little, and she lowered her head in apology. “I’m sorry. Marina asked if I could help her out, swap her a shift. I didn’t think it was any big deal.”

“It’s not,” Adam scoffed, his tightening grip belying his dismissal. “It’s your job, your schedule.”

“I mean,” Emma lay her hand tenderly against his chest. “You never said anything about, well, anything…” She glanced down with a grin at his fingers, now absently pushing the top button of her shirt free from its hole. “I knew you were knee-deep in that new thing when I left last week, I just,” she gasped softly as a second button popped open, baring the flushed skin of her cleavage to the cool evening air. “I guess I assumed you’d rather work… and your supply is stocked to high Heaven, so I figured, you know, if you were hungry…”

“Pretty little fool,” he chided quietly, freeing another button from its tether and sliding his palm beneath the fabric to caress her ribcage. “I thought you understood my… _hunger…_ by now.”

She giggled as he buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent deeply through his nostrils, nipping at her as he thumbed the swell of her satin-covered breast. “Well, I’m very sorry I assumed incorrectly,” she breathed against his cheek, winding her arms around him as his lips began to suck softly at the throbbing pulse beneath her ear. “Maybe you could learn to, oh, I don’t know – call me when you need me?”

She felt the flutter of his lashes against her skin as his eyes opened; she bit her lip uncertainly beneath the scrutiny in his swirling black irises when he lifted his head. “Perhaps you could learn to come when I do.”

Her mind hiccupped at his words, remembering every odd itch and tingle of the previous twenty-four hours: every momentary rush of dizziness that hitched her stride, every stomach flip that made her swallow hard and hold her breath. “Oh, God,” she stroked a hand over his brow, “Adam, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, I thought… but I wasn’t sure…” She blinked back a fine sheen of tears as she pressed her body close to his, grateful for the cool touch of his palms against her bare back beneath her blouse. “I’m sorry.”

He held her a long moment, swaying her gently in the moonlight before pulling her back to face him again, tucking a strand of electric blue behind her ear. “It’s all right, love,” he quipped calmly. “After all…”

_EMMALINE!_

She startled violently in his embrace as the shouted snarl reverberated through her brain, closely followed by his smooth velvety chuckle, all while his mouth simply quirked in the smallest of smirks. “I guess I didn’t need you all that badly.”

“Oh, you are an asshole!” She wriggled free from him, ignoring the flapping lapels of her shirt as she stomped up the stairs and through the back door.

He watched her go, one hand on his cocked hip. “Emmaline…”

“Nope.” She tossed over her shoulder as she crossed through the kitchen. “You said you didn’t need me…”

“Oh, Emmaline, for fuck’s sake…”

“I think I’ll just go up and read a while, you know, I picked up that new Patterson, I hear it’s a real page turner…”

She was almost past the dining room table when a sudden breeze blew her hair over her shoulders, when his arms snaked around her to crush her back against him. “I think,” he growled into the nape of her neck, grinding the slow swelling in his groin against the supple curve of her ass, “you’d better think again.” One hand slid up to carefully caress her throat while the other slid under the waistband of her jeans. “What was it you said about this table, sweet?” he crooned teasingly in her ear as his fingertips splayed over the wet strip of silk between her legs. “That I could learn to love it… if only I could find my own unique uses for it?”

Emma’s only response was a craven little coo from deep inside her chest as he prodded her forward, forcing her to plant her palms flat on the polished surface or fall face-first against it.

“And what,” he nudged her hair aside, his open mouth exhaling a chill over the taut lines of her throat, “if it turns out I’m a traditionalist at heart?” He bit down on one delicate ligament, tugged briefly with his teeth. “My delicious darling…”

“Adam,” she moaned, rolling her hips against the calm, questing fingers that had slipped below the elastic of her panties. “Please…”

“Oh, Emmaline…” She shivered at the scrape of one needle-fine incisor against her racing pulse. “I do so love it when you beg…” His hand beneath her chin stretched her to his liking, and as he pressed up inside her in one smooth, swift thrust, his fangs pierced her skin with painless ease, and she lost herself eagerly on the tides of her blood that flowed into his mouth and her arousal that poured down over his wrist.

Later, asprawl in his bed with every manner of craving quenched, Emma nibbled at his thumb that traced lazily over her lips. “You do know,” she began, “you’re always welcome to come to me, if I’m running too tardy for your tastes.”

Adam’s droll expression didn’t twitch or change. “I’m nothing if I’m not patient, love,” he quipped flatly.

Emma’s peal of laughter was musical. “Come on, Adam, I’m serious.” She snuggled into the crook of his arm, circling one of his dark nipples with the tip of a fingernail. “We’ve had some good times at my place.”

His snort of derision was not completely devoid of affection. “Your place.”

“Hey,” she poked him between two ribs. “What’s wrong with my place?”

Adam sighed. “It’s not this place.”

“This is true,” Emma affirmed. “Over there, I don’t have to let the hot water run for twenty minutes to clear the rust from the pipes.”

“Over here,” Adam sniffed, “you don’t have to listen to frat boys barking about football scores or video game defeats while you take your soak.”

“Over there,” Emma twittered, “all I have to do is call the super if there’s a fuse out or a pipe clogged.”

“Over here,” Adam scowled, “all you ever do is call _me_ if there’s a fuse out or a pipe clogged.”

“Over there, there’s a television!”

“You don’t fucking _watch_ television!” Adam shouted, rolling his eyes as she dissolved into a gale of giggles. “Fucking Christ, you’re a pain in my ass today…”

“I’m sorry,” Emma sighed, sliding her hand up into his hair and drawing his reluctant mouth back to hers. “Really. I love it here, you know that.” He ticked his chin in grudging acceptance, his brow furrowing at the wistful veil that settled over her features. “I’d be here all the time, if I could…”

She didn’t intend the statement as bait, and Adam didn’t hear it as such. But when he continued to stare into the rafters in silence, she couldn’t ignore the salty sting that bit at the back of her throat. “Well,” she swallowed hard, “maybe the walls are too thin and the ceiling’s too low and the garbage disposal always has that funky smell no matter what I use to clean it. But it does have my hair dryer and my closet and six washers and dryers and grumpy guy Nemesis…”

“Fat old fucker…”

Emma laughed at the respectful contempt in his voice. “My point is,” she looked up into his eyes, searching their unreadable depths, “it still serves a purpose, I guess.”

Adam let the silence linger between them for a heartbeat or two before nodding, then rolled his body just a bit, curling possessively around her. His mouth was gentle as it covered hers, and as her lids fluttered shut, she was overwhelmed by the gritty-sweet scent of grass and mud, of pastures and patchouli. She could feel fresh drizzle dotting her skin, and her ears were full of Joan’s soulful singing.

_“In the wink of an eye my soul is turning… in your hand…”_

She shivered as they parted, and Adam tucked her head beneath his chin. “So… you want to tell me about this South-by business?”

***************

Thursday’s sunset arrived far quicker than she might have preferred. Emma stood barefoot in the kitchen, two buttons holding Adam’s burgundy Oxford closed over her breasts, listening to the Bunn quietly percolating as the tune he teased from the mandolin drifted down the stairs. She stared out the weathered glass of the window at the grackles and meadowlarks flitting through the branches of the newly green trees, smiling at the sight of a grizzled old squirrel shooing one of the bigger black birds from his knothole. She was reaching for the handle of the coffee pot, mug in hand, when a scratching sensation scrabbled across the top of her foot.

Upstairs in the loft, Adam startled violently at the sound of her shriek, punctuated by the smash of crockery crashing to the floor. “ADAM!” Her scream tore through his brain from inside and out; in a flash he was at her side, grabbing at her hips as she scrambled up into his arms. “Adam! Adam! Oh, Jesus _CHRIST_ , Adam… my foot… my foot, oh GOD, my foot…”

He lifted her onto the counter, grabbing her small, manicured feet in his hands, running his fingers over the curves of skin and bone. “What is it, Emmaline?” he demanded, wiggling her toes, flexing her ankles. “What happened? Which foot?”

“That one that one that one!” Emma babbled in a panic, pointing to her right foot as the rest of her body shook like a leaf. “Oh, GOD, it touched me! It touched me! IT TOUCHED MY FOOT!”

“Emmaline, love, you’ve got to calm down,” Adam thundered gruffly, frowning as he inspected her limb and found no sign of injury. “You have to tell me what’s wrong, love, because I don’t see…”

A tiny squeak drifted from the corner behind him, and Emma screeched again, pulling her knees to her chest and flapping her hand at the floor. “THERE! There it is! Right there RIGHT THERE! It ran over my foot, RIGHT OVER MY FOOT!”

Adam followed the sound to the source, gritting his teeth at the sight of the small, furry brown body, no bigger than a Matchbox car. “For fucking fuck’s sake, Emmaline,” he seethed, “it’s a mouse.”

“I know!” she sobbed, scraping her hands through her hair and down her body with a shudder. “I know! And it touched me, Adam, it touched me! It ran right over my foot!”

“Bleeding Christ, Emmaline,” Adam fisted his hands on the countertop. “You scared the shit out of me, do you know that?” He turned on his heel with a scoff of disgust. “I thought you were hurt…”

“Wait!” Emma sobbed, her arms outstretched, her hands grabbing at the air. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going back upstairs!” he snapped. “It may have slipped your mind but I have work to do.”

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Emma yelped piteously, cringing a bit when he swung around again. “I want to go too.”

Adam exhaled exasperation out his nostrils. “Well?” he gestured towards the staircase. Emma bit her lip, twisting the hem of his shirt in her fingers; Adam rolled his eyes so violently a sharp pain stabbed white hot in the center of his skull. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbled as he stomped across the floor, scooping the shaking woman into his arms. “Fucking college graduate… board examined and certified… works in a goddamn trauma hospital… acting like a fucking child…” He resisted melting when she buried her face beneath his ear, her fingers tangling gratefully into the curls at the back of his neck. He carried her into the bedroom and set her down in the center of the bed with a huff, watching her scramble to pull the covers up to her chin. He could hear the chattering of her teeth in her head, the pounding of her heart in her chest, and when she turned her wide, wet eyes up to his once more, he forced himself to pass a soothing hand over her hair. “Better now?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good,” Adam sighed, his palm catching the back of her head as he leaned in for a grudging kiss of comfort. “Just settle down…”

“Go get it.”

He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Go get it,” Emma repeated, hooking a finger through a belt loop on his jeans and tugging, imploring. “The mouse. Go get the mouse and get rid of it, please?”

“Emmaline…” His growl was low, full of warning.

“Please, Adam, please, please, please?” She bounced against the mattress. “They’re dirty and gross and they have fleas and diseases…”

“Emmaline…”

“Come ON, Adam, come on! You may have missed the Black Death by a hundred and fifty years but I’m sure your mother told you all about it! You have to go get it, please? Please?”

Mildly impressed, Adam’s face still twisted in an exquisite scowl. “Do I look like some bloody barn cat to you?”

“No, no, no!” Emma insisted. “You’re handsome and sexy and one hundred percent man!” He narrowed his eyes at her enthusiastic flattery. “But you’ve got cat-like reflexes, and that creepy-fast vampire speed and laser vision – wait, where are you going?” she squawked as he spun once more, stalking out of the room.

“I have work to do…”

He dropped to the Victorian in irritation, draping the mandolin across his lap and eyeballing the lines of music he’d written earlier on the sheets of paper beside his thigh. As his fingers resumed their gentle plucking and strumming, he heard the soft patter of Emma’s bare feet crossing the floor, followed by the rushing hiss of water flowing through the plumbing of the bathroom. He closed his eyes and continued to play, listening to the whisper of cotton sliding over her shoulders and down her arms, the swish of her hair as she twisted it into a knot atop her head. The music swelled just a bit at the quiet splash of her body sinking into the tub, and again as he heard the delicate slip and slide of her well-soaped hands over the lines and curves of her body. He inhaled deeply, drawing the steamy-sweet scent of almond and plum rising from her skin into his lungs, gnashing his teeth just a bit at the rough scrape of the washcloth over the path the rodent had taken across the arch of her foot.

He’d nearly finished the sultry somber piece when she emerged from the bedroom wrapped in a towel to cross the room on tiptoe. She crawled onto the sofa with a shuddery sigh, scooting against his side and tucking her knees up under her chin. Her neck and shoulders were still shiny wet, strands of brilliant blue and dark chocolatey brown clinging to the delicate skin. Her eyes darted nervously over the expanse of the floor before she lay her head against him, the floral fresh smell of her still slightly underlined by a bitter wisp of anxious distress. Finally, he turned his face to hers, his features edged with resignation. “Bring that fat bastard with you the next time you come, if it’s got you that concerned.”

Emma choked a bit on the rich guffaw that burst up from her chest. “Nemesis? Yeah, the only thing he’s catching out here is a cold.”

“For Christ’s sake, Emmaline,” Adam groaned, “I know he’s not going to catch the fucking thing. Just leaving his stink all over the place would do the job, scare the little vermin away.”

“Hmm,” Emma hummed, nudging her forehead against his chin. “You think so?”

He nudged back. “I said so, didn’t I?”

Her mouth bowed slightly in a skeptical frown. “You barely tolerate him at my place… it wouldn’t drive you crazy having him shedding all over yours?”

Adam shrugged aloofly. “I’ll just leave the back door open, maybe he’ll run away.” Emma giggled a little, shaking her head. “Maybe one of those mouthy coyotes would show up, carry him off as a family feast.” Emma gasped in affected affront and Adam cocked an eyebrow. “Why not? Fat fucker could keep the pack fed for a week.”

“Stop,” Emma sniggered, pushing against him affectionately. He wound an arm around her, rubbing his hand up and down her back as she gazed up at him curiously. “You… you really think bringing him here would scare any furry-creepy-crawly thing away?” Adam nodded, his expression flat and matter-of-fact. “And you’d let me? You’d really let me? Just for a day or two?”

“Emmaline…” his tone was thin, edging towards impatient.

“Okay, okay,” she offered him a sheepish grin. “You said so, so…” The two sat in silence for a moment, his fingers toying with the baby fine hair at the nape of her neck as hers traced reverent lines along the frets of the mandolin until she shivered beneath his shoulder. “I’m cold.”

“I’m not surprised,” he mused quietly. “You’re naked.”

She sniffed a tiny laugh. “I am naked.”

“You should put something on.”

She cocked her head, an impish light filling her eyes. “Okay.” Taking the guitar from his lap, she set it carefully aside before reclining back on the couch, tugging at his hand. He allowed his lips to curl in a ghost of a grin before covering her body with his own.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been worn before,” he breathed, nuzzling his nose against her cheek.

“I think I wear you quite well,” Emma beamed up at him, “don’t you agree?”

Later, as the combined fluids of their ecstasy dripped teasingly over the fresh twin pinpricks high inside her thigh, the two of them sat on the rickety back step, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, watching the faint orange glow of the rising sun just tickling its way over the horizon. Adam shook his head in amused annoyance at the sight of her slender ankles disappearing into the wide throats of his motorcycle boots, smiled faintly at the thought of her scent bleeding into his dressing gown wrapped around her. Her mouth stretched in a wide yawn as he plucked the clip from her hair and she shook her head agreeably, sending her locks spilling down over her back. “You should get some sleep.”

She crooked her chin to her shoulder, a flirty, sleepy lilt to her mossy green eyes. “You should, too.”

He gave a curt nod, leaned closer to glance a kiss to her temple. “Go. Warm the bed for me, I’ll be up in a minute.”

Her expression was one of such sweet, satisfied serenity it made his chest ache. “Okay.” She stood straight, wobbled a bit in the too-big shoes; rolling his eyes, Adam offered her his hand for balance as she clomped her way back into the house, leaving the door open behind her. He spent a long moment listening to her footsteps fade away, watching the early morning breeze help the trees shrug off their shawls of silvery spring mist.

A tiny squeak turned his head; his fingers easily caught the naked pink tail, and four little legs splayed in search of purchase as he dangled the mouse in midair.

“Purpose served, my furry little friend,” his voice was pointed and plain as he set the creature down on a bare patch of earth, watching it sniff the air before rising and turning to climb the steps. It was still sitting on its haunches, wiggling its whiskers and staring at him with wary regard when he reached the back door.

“Oh, no,” he chided gruffly, waving an arm toward the tree line. “Off with you, now. I won’t be inviting you in again.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Character death, including the death of an infant. Please be aware and proceed with care.

The hammering between his ears was nearly unbearable and it occurred to him, as he rolled to his back beneath the sheets with a groan, that it might be time to give up and find a different way to lay tracks. As fond as he was of the Vestax, the endless hours he spent tinkering over her temperamental guts were starting to take their toll. Six the previous night alone, and he’d yet to yield a tangible copy of the tune that had been ready to go for more than a week. “Fucking daylight,” he muttered, pulling the pillow over his face, determined to steal a few more hours sleep before venturing out on so taxing a chore.

The pounding grew louder; he’d only just realized the sound was coming from outside his head when it hit him at once: fear, sadness, desperation, and the sound of distress wrapped around his name in her voice. “Adam? Adam! Adam, please… I know you’re there! Please, Adam, open the door!”

He scowled briefly against the soft plush. How long had it been since she’d started letting herself in, her feline companion announcing their arrival with a sustained deep-throated growl until she’d flipped open the carrier door? How many times had she left him sulking in his plastic cave, shedding her scrubs as she tiptoed up the stairs to crawl into bed, cuddling lace and silk and skin against his chest as she tucked her head beneath his chin? “It’s open,” he mumbled against the pillowcase.

“Adam?” Another flurry of knocking that must have left her knuckles tender. “Adam! Come on… please?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Emmaline,” he groaned, “it’s open!” She continued beating on the door, and finally, he threw the sheet back with a snarl. He grabbed his dressing gown from the arm of the Louis before descending the stairs and had just cinched it loosely at his waist before his hand closed around the doorknob. “When is it _no_ t fucking open…” His tirade of angry derision died on his lips the moment the heavy oak panel swung back, allowing the huddled and near-hysterical young woman on the other side to fling herself into his embrace.

The smell of chlorhexidine and ammonia and sour sweat drifted around her in a sickly cloud. Her once tidy braid was wildly unkempt, strands of dark chestnut and hot pink blowing untethered about her face. Her dark blue scrubs were rumpled, her hospital ID badge still hung around her neck. Her eyes were wide and wet, red-rimmed above puffy and bruised flesh that told him she’d been crying for some time. And her sure and graceful little hands were frantic, groping their way up his lapels as he reflexively wrapped his arms around her.

“Emmaline… Jesus…”

Her sobs were all but incoherent as he helped her up the stairs, his bare feet careful to sidestep the thin patches of morning sun that spilled through the cracks of the shuttered windows and pooled just their side of the bannister. He lowered her to the sofa, tenderly kissing her cheek, only to feel the air whuff out of him in a rush when she answered his attempt to release her with a desperate, crushing hug. “Emmaline, for fuck’s sake, I was just going to get you some water…”

“No, Adam, no, please,” she wept piteously, clutching at his collar at the back of his neck. “I don’t want any water… I don’t want anything… just please… please… stay with me… hold me… please please please…”

“All right, love, all right,” he soothed her gently, if a bit bewilderedly, easing himself into the corner of the couch and pulling her into his lap. She settled against him gratefully, wearily, and surrendered to the overwhelming tide of misery crashing within her. He could feel her tears falling hot against his chest as he untwisted the elastic from her hair, unwinding her braid with slow and tender deliberation. As he worked, he closed his eyes, trying to zero in on the source of her anguish. Everything fractured… disconnected… thoughts of _no_ and _why_ and _not fair_ and _I can’t_ over and over again… _I can’t… I can’t… please… I can’t…_

Close to an hour he held her, rocking her, his palms soothing their way over her arm, across her back, until the soft and steady pulse of _hurts… hurts… hurts…_ had quieted to a dull roar. Only then did he slip a finger beneath her chin, tilt her head back, and breathe in her pain as he closed his lips over hers. The kiss lingered, quiet, calming, and when they parted at last, her eyes were damp but clear. “Now then,” Adam smoothed her hair across her brow, tucked it behind her ear, “want to tell me what this is all about?”

Emmaline’s teeth closed briefly on her bottom lip. “Not really,” she lay her forehead against him, “but I guess I have to, don’t I?”

The story fell from her in bits and pieces, the images flashing through his mind telling him more than the halting words that stuttered from her lips. The woman sinking to her knees in the market, the pool of liquid on the floor far too much to have only spilled from the broken jar of pickles she’d dropped. The frightened joy in her eyes when Emma knelt at her side (“It’s okay, ma’am, I’m a nurse… is this your first?”), taking her hand and encouraging her to breathe. Her professional veneer taking over at the sight of the crimson streaks painting the stranger’s thighs as the green-looking stock boy dialed 911. He could see the creases that had sliced her forehead as she helped the EMTs load the laboring mother-to-be onto the gurney, as well as the paramedic who’d checked out her ass as she bent to assist him in the back of the rig. The way she blew her hair from her eyes as she watched the OB emergency team whisk the lot of them away down the long, sterile hall before summoning the elevator to take her to her own floor so she could clock in for her own shift. His eyes scanned the post-partum board, same as hers, came up empty, same as hers. He felt the shot to the gut when the clerk at the nurse’s station looked at her with clinical sympathy, heard the words – “ _I’m sorry, miss… they didn’t make it…”_ – echo in her ears.

He could smell the tiny bouquet of pink and blue tea roses she’d left sitting on the counter.

She was shaking her head even after the words had stopped, and he pressed a kiss to her crown, tightening his arms around her ever so slightly. “I’m so very sorry, love,” he murmured into her hair. “You know you did the very best you could.” She lay limp against him, and he tilted her face up to his once more. “You know that, yes?” She nodded weakly, her eyes still clouded with doubt, and he again brushed his lips over hers. “She was never your responsibility; the fact that you took her care upon yourself,” he offered her a small smile, “foolishly brave.”

She snorted a small, rueful laugh. “Foolishly…”

“You humans,” he shifted a little beneath her, “almost ridiculously fragile…”

“I don’t want kids,” Emmaline blurted suddenly, interrupting him as if she wasn’t even aware he’d been speaking. Adam blinked at her, uncertain how to respond, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t. I’ve never wanted kids.”

“Okay…”

“I mean it,” she pulled free from his embrace, turning in the sprawl of his legs to better face him. “Babies are cute, they are, all fat and gummy… I don’t even mind that they’re mostly wet and slobbery little creatures, I don’t.” She drew in a hitching breath. “And kids are great –well, they can be – and I’m sure that they can be fun and fascinating…”

Her eyes had taken on a distant and far-away sheen, and Adam lay a hand on her knee. “Emmaline…”

“But I never wanted to be a mother. I never did! Even when my dad was buying me baby dolls with all the clothes and the bottles and the cradles and crap… I never played house, never… even then I was playing hospital…” She shook her head absently. “God, Ethan used to make so much fun of me…”

“Emmaline…”

“But I never cared because I just knew,” she continued. “I just knew. My mom was a good mom, you know? Not the best, I mean, she was kinda cold from time to time. But she got the job done. We were healthy, we were happy. And she always used to tell me… she _always_ used to tell me: ‘Make your choices wisely, Meadowlark, because you can’t take it back. It’s a life sentence, so much longer than eighteen years, and there’s no parole, no probation…’”

“Emmaline, darling…”

“No, I’m serious, Adam,” Emmaline bounced against the sofa cushion as if to emphasize her point. “She wasn’t mean about it, she wasn’t cruel. She just wanted to make sure that I knew, that I understood. It’s a forever thing, whether you want it to be or not, a forever thing.” Her eyes drifted again, staring off into the space just beyond his shoulder. “Forever… and I always knew I couldn’t handle my forever belonging to someone else. I wanted it to be mine, my own. My life, my call, my decisions. I never wanted to take anyone else’s wants or needs into consideration just because I _had_ to, because I was _supposed_ to, because I was _obligated_ to. I never wanted kids because I couldn’t stand the idea of giving my _forever_ to anybody.”

Adam sniffed a small chuckle. “Oh, Emmaline…”

Her gaze found his once more, frighteningly clear and laser focused. “But I want to give my forever to you.”

His responding smile was natural, easy. Until the weight of her stare and the message in her words settled around his shoulders like a heavy lead blanket. Silence hung between them for a moment, thick and cloying; his stomach twisted as her own expression puckered in misery at the way his eyes darkened, the way his face paled. “Emmaline,” he drew in a deep breath, “you’re not asking…”

“Please, Adam, please?” Her hands caught his, warm and soft against the cool angles of his wrists and knuckles. “I love you…”

His head was shaking reflexively on his neck. “Do not do this, Emmaline.”

“You said you loved me…”

“Emmaline, no…”

“Adam, please,” she lifted his hand to her lips, her kisses soft as the summer rain. “Please? I love you, I need you, I want to be with you forever. Please, can’t you just…”

“Do _NOT_ do this to me, Emmaline!”

His roar made her flinch back in her seat, and he tore himself from her grasp as he leapt to his feet. “I love you, Emmaline. I fucking _hate_ that I love you, but I do. Very, very much.” His voice was shaking as he took a step back, then another. “But you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“But I do!” She sobbed, tears once again streaking her cheeks. “I do! I know your life… you’ve _shown_ me your life…”

“Emmaline…”

“And it’s an _amazing_ life! You’ve seen so much…”

“Emmaline, stop this right now…”

“You done so much, you’ve learned so much, you’ve met so many incredible people!”

“Emmaline, do NOT…”

She rose from the sofa as well, her hands balled into tiny fists at her sides. “You’ve been _everywhere_ , lived _a thousand_ lives, and they’ve _all_ been a gift! Music and magic and culture and knowledge…”

“Emmaline!”

“And _love_!” She swiped at her wet cheeks with the back of one hand. “Even before me, Adam, you had love! So much love! She was beautiful and kind and strong and happy…”

“EMMALINE!”

“NO ADAM!” she shrieked, stomping her foot in childish temper. “ _You took me there! You SHOWED me!_ You gave me your life, the sights, the sounds,” she began to move, slow, deliberate, closing the distance between them in small, measured steps. “You took me to all those places, you let me meet all those people, _you_ _let me feel_! Your love, your wonder, your inspiration, your creation.” Her hands scrabbled along the front of his robe. “You’ve been giving me your forever one breath at a time, one dream at a time, so please, _please_ , Adam… take mine…”

His hands closed over her bare arms just beneath the sleeves of her scrub top, and she gasped, her eyes blown wide with shock, her body stiff as he flowed into her once more…

_… the musty smell of mildewed autumn rain pelting against the cobblestones beneath his feet, the molding wood of the alley storage shed spongy against his cheek as he peered through the slats. The clumping thunder of a dozen boot heels rumbling past, the pungent scent of lantern oil and smoke hanging heavy in the air. “Oi! ‘E went this way ‘e did, the murderin’ bastard! Let’s run ‘im down, boys, afore ‘e spills another drop!”…_

_… the drunken laughter of the Irish lad rattling in his brain, only slightly less noisome than the tinny, out of tune harpsicord that had inhabited the corner of the dim Dublin pub.   The way his eyes dipped sleepily at the corners when he’d leaned in for that forbidden kiss. How grey the whites had seemed in contrast to the black of his blown pupils when he gazed at his own blood streaking Adam’s lips, just before they’d closed forever…_

_… the too-floral scent of the Viennese whore wriggling beneath him, her heart pounding against his chest, drowning out the theatrical moans of “ja” and “mehr” and “so gut”. Her piercing shriek at the sight of his fangs, cut off quick by the crush of his palm over her painted lips. The cheap scarlet streak had lingered on his skin for days…_

_… the sour twist of hunger as he thumped the back of his head, over and over, against the iron strut of the Brooklyn bridge…_

_… faces of friends, memorialized too fresh, too young. Tesla, Crane, Holly, Hendrix, Williams, Winehouse…_

_… the circle of cool metal pressed to the muscle of his chest, the scent of the cleaning oil drifting in his nostrils…_

_… the small, significant weight of the bullet in his hand…_ dalbergia melanoxlon _…_

_… her pale, porcelain face, twisted in horror. The dry, dusty reek of the ash on their balcony..._

With herculean effort, Emma pulled herself from his grasp, her lip trembling at the sight of the infuriated agony that etched his features. “Adam…”

His mouth twisted in an angry smirk. “So now you see a little more, sweet Emmaline,” he hissed contemptuously. “Now you see a little clearer.” He advanced on her, towering over her, backing her slowly into the corner. “This life you call amazing… wondrous… _a gift_ …” Her head hit the wall with a thump and his hands shot out, pressing on either side of her and trapping her behind the cage of his body. “More often than not, my love, it’s a black bloody _curse_.” He scowled down his nose at her. “You think you know _hungry_. You think you know _scared_. You think you know _alone_. And you think you know _anger_. Trust me, my love,” he swiped his tongue across her lips. “You. Know. _Nothing_.”

Her hand was trembling when she lifted it; it took every ounce of strength he had not to flinch away when she lay it, soft and sure, against his cheek. “I know love.”

He spared a second to stare into her eyes before throwing his head back and laughing bitterly to the ceiling. “Oh, my _darling_ ,” he spat, “your childish and uninformed request tells me you know love least of all.”

Emma’s knees buckled at his words, and her shoulders shook as she cried softly beneath his scrutiny. “That’s not true…”

“It _is_ true!” he bellowed, whirling away from her and crossing the room in a rage. “If you loved me, Emmaline, _truly_ loved me, then you would be content with what we are, with what I am, with what _this_ is! You would take what I give you and be happy and grateful!” His own hands clenched into fists, the cords of his arms popping dangerously beneath his pale skin. “And if you truly loved me, you would not have forgotten my words – words that I spoke to you the very first time you pushed your way into my house…”

“That is NOT what happened!” she screeched miserably.

“… and whored your way into my bed!” he shouted over her. “Have you forgotten, Emmaline, have you really? What did I tell you? _WHAT DID I TELL YOU?”_ He stomped close to her once again, forcing her to cower before him. “ _This is not a fairytale,_ ” he seethed. “You are not some precious princess, and I am NOT your handsome prince! There is no pumpkin carriage, there is no magical kiss at midnight, there is no crystal castle in the clouds!” He leaned into her malevolently, growling hoarsely directly into her ear. “ _There is no happy ending here_.” Grabbing her roughly at the scruff of her neck, he hustled her back to the staircase.

“Adam, wait,” she clutched at him frantically, his grip on her the only thing that kept her stumbling feet beneath her and prevented her from pitching headlong down the steps. “Wait, please, _please_! Talk to me…”

“The time for talking is over, Emmaline,” he gruffed wearily, shoving her away from him and towards the door. “Get out.”

“Don’t say that, Adam, please… _please_ …”

“Get out, Emmaline.”

“Adam, no! I love you! Please?”

“Get out, Emmaline!”

“Adam…”

The plea died in her throat as he seemed to grow and swell before her. His eyes were hard and cold, dull onyx disks in his skull, the vessels within them throbbing a hot and angry red. His thin lips pulled back from his razor sharp fangs and every line of sinew visible in his neck and arms was stretched taut at the effort he was expending to keep his fury at bay. Still, her hands fluttered weakly toward him like lost birds, until he snapped at her viciously.

“ _NOW_!”

One final rebellious denial bubbled up behind her lips. Then, like a fading beacon cutting through too-dense fog, his voice whispered softly through the center of her brain.

_Please, sweet Emmaline. I’ll hurt you if you stay._

Tears flying from her cheeks, Emma spun on her heel and yanked open the door. Her mournful, broken sob drowned out his barking curse as Adam flung himself back, raising an arm to ward off the sunlight spilling into the entry as angry sparks licked at the tips of his toes. He heeled his way up one stair, then another, growling in pain and frustration as the small spots of char slowly re-perfused, leaving his skin pale and unblemished once more. He’d only just begun to recover his composure when the sound of a roaring engine filled his ears, followed closely by the hissing spit of gravel under wheels. A moment of white-hot anguish in the center of his chest, and she was gone, her exit pathetically punctuated by the dull and undramatic click of the door latching shut.


	19. Disconnect

For the third time that day, Amy’s number flashed across the screen of Emma’s cell phone.

For the third time that day, Emma ignored it.

It only bought her a few moments of reprieve. Then, from across the room, muffled beneath a pile of old t-shirts and sweaters, the antique trill of her landline phone chirped merrily away. Three rings, four, and finally the canned voice of dated technology invited the caller to leave a message. “Wow, uh, guess it’s a good thing you never chucked this old dinosaur, huh?” Amy’s words were heavy with artificial cheer. “Yeah, look, it’s me. You know it’s me. You know why I’m calling. You haven’t been to work in a week, no one has seen or heard from you, except that twat from HR. And thanks, by the way, so nice to know that douche has heard from you more lately than I have.…” Her monologue stuttered briefly, then resumed. “You know, I get it, okay? I get it. Something happened. Something really bad. And I’m sure, whatever it is, it sucks, and I’m sure you’ve got every right to hole up and wallow and watch Springer reruns and eat cookie dough and… whatever. But… Em… come on. You can’t keep ducking everybody’s calls, you can’t keep refusing to answer your door… you’re gonna burn through all your sick time eventually. Wouldn’t it be better to just… I don’t know… deal? Talk to me, talk to _anybody_! You can’t just…” Again her words faded away, and the speaker of the answering machine vibrated beneath the heavy sigh she blew through it. “Whatever, Em. Call me, okay? Please? Just… call me…”

Nemesis’ ear twitched at the closing beep that droned through the air, and he turned his head on his neck to regard his mistress with weary concern.

She hadn’t left her apartment in eight days, had barely left her bed in the last three. She’d stumbled through her door that awful morning half blind from crying and with little to no memory of the drive home. She’d thrown both the bolts and shoved the chain into place before tearing her scrubs off and hurling herself into the shower; they still lay on the floor beside the sofa like fallen leaves. She’d sunk to the floor beneath a spray that was too hot, sobbing into her knees until the water ran icy cold. She was still wearing the same UT sweatshirt she’d dragged over her head after barely drying off, the same mid-shin pajama pants with the frayed hems that tickled her shins and calves. The phone rang ignored, the door sat unanswered. The gangly apartment manager had come and gone the day before, satisfied with an eye glaring at him through the crack beneath the chain and the muttered, “I’m fine”, and as long as his dish was full, even the cat kept quiet. Days of eating next to nothing made it easier to eat nothing at all and she supposed, when the juice and diet soda was gone from the fridge, it wouldn’t matter much if the water served its purpose or not.

She’d never felt more tired, or more alone.

She’d spent the first few days huddled on the couch, picking at the loose threads in her favorite throw blanket, waiting. Waiting to see if he’d come, speaking her name from the other side of the door in his low, commanding tone. Waiting to see if he’d appear on the patio, a quiet specter politely anticipating invitation inside. Waiting to hear his words in her head, to feel the pull of his hunger and need and desire beneath her skin, waiting to heed his call and return to his side to find together the way that they’d lost.

He didn’t come, didn’t call. It made it easier to retire to the dark of her room, the embrace of her bed.

Her dreams were flat, dull, shapeless visions that faded from her mind as soon as her eyes opened. No color, no sound, no life. She soon realized it made little difference to her whether her eyes were open or closed. So she settled into her mattress, wound her arms around the pillow that still bore a lingering trace of his hair and his skin, and waited, doing little more than breathing, and whispering his name.

“Adam…”

Miles away, behind another locked door, Adam trudged his way through the wreckage heaped here and there on his way to the fridge.

The bannister had been the first casualty of his wrath, the polished wood crumbling to all but dust in his grip as he stared down the door he’d pushed her through with his rage and rejection. Once that small section had been destroyed, it was easy to rend the rest from the staircase, tearing and crushing and smashing with disappointing ease. The grandfather clock had gone down with a groan, the tinkling of crushed glass and cough of bending brass only slightly more satisfying. The antique china cabinet was an easy target, as were the delicate dishes inside; he cursed himself for ever allowing them through the door as he flung them, one by one, to explode like clay pigeons against the wall. The memory of taking her sprawled across the polished surface of the dining table she’d found was the perfect fuel for the fury that upended it, his bare hands and feet reducing it to elegant kindling in a matter of moments. No one ever sat in the overstuffed armchair that graced the parlor corner, not even Emmaline, but that made it no less gratifying to slash the guts of fluffy cotton batting from its brocade cloth skin.

And here, in the kitchen, more shreds and shrapnel. Cabinet doors hung precariously from hinges that warped under the force of him throwing them open to victimize whatever sundries lay within. The smell of the beans scattered across the countertops and floor was faded, the water long since evaporated from the Bunn’s cracked and broken reservoir. The shards of the shattered pot winked mockingly from the floor as he hauled open the door of the refrigerator; the cylinder he selected easily smashed the glass of the bulb with a sufficient _pop_. He took a lazy sip, then another, eyeing the state of his well-stocked supply before tossing the thermos back into place.

_Enough to weather apocalypse… she was good for that, at least…_

Pushing down the cynic with an audible growl, he slammed the fridge shut and stomped his way back upstairs.

He hadn’t entered the attic since casting her out. And now, standing well clear of the warm, golden rays that spilled through the singular circle window, he was reminded of why. He could see her, smell her, feel her in the air. The books that lined the shelves he’d put in place for her whispered quiet pleas for her fingers to come and tickle their pages. The piano she’d been so proud to find sat still and silent, mournfully collecting the motes that drifted in the glow of the fading afternoon sun. The twinkle lights he’d strung around the room to delight her hung dark, like limp melting icicles, and he scoffed at his willingness to indulge so ridiculous a whim. More than anything, he wanted once again to tap his ire, to reduce this room as well to nothing more than debris and dust, to tear out the heart that beat there before bolting the door and leaving it lifeless and empty for good.

He settled instead for simply bolting the door. “Maybe after a nap…” He shed his dressing gown to the floor as he entered his bedroom, unbuttoning his jeans but not bothering to kick them off before flopping face down onto his bed.

He’d torn the sheets away the morning after she’d gone, knowing full well her sweet scent would haunt him, would chase him down into even the deepest of dreams, making him long for her soft flesh beneath his fingers, her lyrical sighs in his ears, her warm body around his cock, her blood flowing over his tongue.   Their tattered remains fluttered haphazardly from the refuse pile he’d stacked at the back corner of the house. A waste, as it turned out; the mattress itself had drawn her in – her sweat and her tears and her laughter, her arousal, her release. He could even still smell the fucking cat.

“Emmaline…” he muttered miserably to the silence of the house. “Goddammit Emmaline…”


	20. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Character death, including the death of an infant. Please be aware, and proceed with care.

_“Adam? Adam, could you come here please?”_

_He eyed his reflection wearily, straightening his collar with a sigh. “Coming, Father.”_

_It could have been worse. She was the picture of perfection – blonde ringlets piled above china blue eyes, pouty pink lips, porcelain pale and slender as a willow. Empty-headed, yes, and a bit too quick to simper and sigh, but what else was a fifteen year old girl bred for marriage meant to do? And the arrangement was a good one, one that meant a step up in station for his family as well as the acquisition of land and loyalty for hers. True, they didn’t need it – his father’s position in local governance and his mother’s dowry had kept their family of three more than comfortable. But the esteem of his future father-in-law and the society sway of his wife held lovely promise for his parents. And his own lack of resistance meant fewer lectures about the course of his own future, which meant more time with quill and parchment and harpsichord and lute. Besides, he’d have a year of proper betrothal to get used to the idea, and at seventeen, twelve months may as well have been a lifetime._

_If only his mother’s chambermaid hadn’t fallen so ill…_

_Her replacement was a comely, capable woman, well-spoken for a domestic, and proud to serve in so respectable a household. Widowed and willing to bend her back for a day’s wages, and wasn’t his mother so kind to offer room and board to boot. Of course, the little two-room servant suite would be more than satisfactory; it was, after all, only her and her daughter._

_Her daughter._

_A dark, glossy tumble of hair. Sea green eyes that danced with mirth and mischief. Rosebud lips more often than not curled in an irresistible impish smile. And an irrepressible sunny nature that never failed to burrow under his skin and niggle its way through his veins. She served at her mother’s side with grace and charm, flitting about the house and yard like a busy little butterfly, dancing as she dusted, humming to herself as if there were nowhere on Earth she’d rather be, nothing on Earth she’d rather be doing._

_Bloody nuisance._

_He’d been scowling at her back for little less than a month that afternoon when, seated at the harpsichord in his mother’s music room, the bobbing of her head below the picture windowsill proved one distraction too many. Storming out the parlor door, he stomped through the dew-glistened grass to find her kneeling in a patch of rich soil dotted with sprouting green. “What in the bloody Hell are you doing down there?”_

_Her face lifted brightly to his, one flushed cheek streaked with dirt. “Weeding the garden, Sir.”_

_He furrowed his brow at her. “What?”_

_With a lilting giggle, she wiped her hands on her apron and waved him closer. “See those little sprouts there? A few weeks of sun and rain and those will be primroses, lilies, and pretty pink carnations. Just the kind of soft, colorful things your mother would love to see every time she looks out the window. Now,” she shifted her hand, pointing to the other shoots that were, to his eye, the heartier of the bunch, “see those little things there? Those are dandelions. Not nearly as pretty, and they turn to fluff and dust afore too long. Sight of them’d bedevil your mother for certain. Problem is, dandelion roots go much deeper, and are a heap measure stronger than the roots of these lassies here. Leave them all in the ground together, the latter’ll choke the life out of the former, and your mum’ll fair sure want to choke the life out of me.” She gifted him a sweet little grin. “So I’m yanking the little buggers out.” With a pert nod, she fluffed her skirt, reset her knees to the ground, and resumed her pulling and plucking._

_He’d no idea how long he’d stood over her, unable to look away, when she shot him a teasing wink. “You know, if you’re not going to play me more pretty tunes to speed my work here, you could roll up them sleeves and help me along more directly…”_

_He never should have acquiesced; it cost her a good night’s sleep, crawling about that patch of Earth replanting seeds to replace the sprouts his stupid hands had destroyed. He’d watched her from the window of his room, her shift shining white in the moonlight, her long tresses blowing wild in the evening breeze. She’d yawned her way through her duties the following afternoon, but no one was ever the wiser; neither of them faced so much as a single stern word or even a blush of embarrassment._

_Three months engaged, and he was unbuttoning his waistcoat in the privacy of his room when the tiny pebbles skipped across his window. His parents were snoring contentedly in their bed, her mother fast asleep in her own as he stoked the fire in the parlor hearth low, regaling her with whispered descriptions of the food and festivities as she listened, enraptured, eyes shining with delight. She sighed over his talk of the music and dance, sniffed in adorable derision at his accounting of his betrothed’s party gown – “It was pink… with a bit of white…” – and he smiled in quiet admiration as she hummed the tune that had been playing as he’d glided over the floor, his affianced on his arm. He believed that she crept back to her own room to indulge in the sweet marzipan he’d smuggled home in his napkin; in truth, she kept it tucked under her pillow, a talisman to bring pleasant dreams._

_Several weeks later, the house was their own. His parents had carriaged to London, his father for business, his mother for shopping; her own mother tended to needlepoint by the fire in the servant’s cottage, nursing a headache and a croupy-sounding cough. Tea and toast and a kiss to one warm cheek delivered, she hurried to the house to tend her mother’s duties, giggling a bit when she entered the music room to find him already seated at the harpsichord. He quickly abandoned the dark and somber piece he’d been playing for a light and lilting melody of his own composition and, before long, she was pirouetting endearingly over the polished floor, the feathers of her duster dancing merrily over the mantle. She plopped onto the bench beside him with the bounce of the final note, and he nudged her playfully with his shoulder before scooting to the edge. “Now you.”_

_She looked at him with blank curiosity. “Beg pardon, Sir?”_

_He gave a nod to the ivory. “Now you play something for me.”_

_“Oh, Sir,” she laughed easily, “I don’t know how.”_

_“Well, my dear,” he slid close to her once more, “that simply won’t do.” Wrapping his arms around her, he lifted her hands to the keys. “Here is where you find middle C…”_

_Twenty minutes later, a chipper tune, sweet and simple, skipped haltingly from her fingertips. Refrain after refrain as he tapped a finger under her wrists to keep them up, smoothed a palm over her shoulders to keep them down. She was giggling triumphantly when she turned her face up to his. “How clever is that?”_

_Adam smiled down at her, and after a moment of shared silence, the words were tumbling from his mouth. “I don’t want to marry Catherine Worthington.”_

_Her expression was carefully neutral, but she couldn’t hide the sudden, hopeful light that filled her lovely green eyes. “Sir?”_

_Her slender neck was warm beneath his hands, delicate lines of sinew beneath silky soft skin. Her lips were full and trembling when he tasted them at last, his heart swelling in his chest at the flavor he realized he’d been craving for weeks. Her fingers brushed curiously at his elbows and he parted from her, their shared gaze never breaking as he caught her hands and guided them to his shoulders. It seemed to him that he held her for little more than a heartbeat, but the moon was peeking down on them when the clatter of hooves and the call of the coachman sent them scurrying to the servant’s entrance. Her cheeks were full of roses and her lips were shining and swollen, and he pressed a final kiss to the back of her fingers before bidding her a whispered goodnight. He lingered in the kitchen doorway until she disappeared into the tiny cottage at the back of the property, until the single light from the candle beside her window winked into darkness._

_“Sleep sweet, Emma…”_

_Six months gone, and the weekly socials at the Worthington estate were becoming more and more unbearable. He covered well, sat stoic and polite as his bride-to-be and her flock of followers chattered and cooed over this one’s new hat pin and that one’s new brooch. He walked the property with his future brother-in-law, a bookish lad more interested in examining the angles of the sun and the beetles in the bushes than pursuing conversation, a state that suited Adam just fine. He continued his tradition of sneaking a sampling of sweets from the dessert table; later, hidden in the orchards with only stars as witness, he would whisper to Emma how much sweeter they tasted taken from her lovely lips._

_As fate would have it, they weren’t to be her only souvenir of the life he lived without her; Adam was browsing the books in the modest family library when he overheard the exchange between his mother and hers:_

_“Elizabeth, dear, would you be so kind as to deliver this lovely little blossom to your Emma?”_

_The chambermaid’s hands shook a bit as they held the crockery thrust into them. “But… but Lady Eleanor… ‘tis far too fine a bloom to sit by a serving girl’s bedside...”_

_“Nonsense! Your lovely little flower makes such a bright spot of my home, why shouldn’t I do the same for hers? Besides, t’was to be a gift from Adam to his darling, but Lady Charlotte insists sweet Catherine is far too flighty to tend such a beauty. I’d hate to see such a treasure fall to waste, and your little lass has quite the touch for growing things…”_

_Nine months, routines and rendezvous well established, and he’d begun to wonder how much longer before their bubble might burst and force him to action. More and more, Emma flourished in the light of their secret romance, her presence welcomed by everyone in the household, her attention to her chores always above reproach. She never brought pressure to bear, never questioned his thoughts or intentions. And every time he extended his hand, her little fingers found their way into his palm; every time he opened his arms, her body found its way into his embrace._

_She was sweeping the cobwebs from the corners of the ceiling in the foyer the day the Worthington carriage rolled ‘round to the front door, the honey-hued palfrey tethered to the rear. “Sir James?” she called towards the closed study doors. “Begging pardon… Sir James?”_

_The horse was a token of esteem from Lord Phillip for his future son-in-law. Adam was taken with the animal in spite of himself; it only took a few days for him to arrange the midnight ride. It was bliss, holding her in his arms beneath the moonless sky, nuzzling his nose into the satin of her hair as he watched her fingers comb their way through the silky black mane in her hands. She leaned easily into him as the horse picked its way carefully along the winding path through the forest; he chuckled into her neck as the trees before them parted on the moor that stretched to the horizon. “Are you ready, my sweet?”_

_Her breathless “yes” was all he needed. A single nudge of his booted foot against one muscular flank, a click of his tongue, and they were flying._

_Her face was still ruddy and flushed as she helped him rub the animal down, her smile so wide her cheeks were aching. Adam finished the tack and ushered her out of the stall, spinning her out gallantly as if the floor beneath their feet was the finest polished Italian marble instead of packed English earth. She overbalanced ever so slightly on her return, leaning heavily against his chest as her giggles filled his ears. “Sweet Emma,” he chuckled a bit himself, reaching for the stray strand of ribbon that fluttered above one ear. “You’ve come undone.” A gentle tug from his fingers and a toss of her head, and the hair tethered back tumbled free past her shoulders, shining waves of fragrant chestnut, the ends curling softly at her waist. The scent of soft orchid, the sight of her dark locks against her pale skin, her eyes so wide and innocently trusting… it all stole the breath from his lungs. “Emma…” He stroked her cheek, traced a thumb over her lips. “My sweet, beautiful Emma…”_

_She kissed the digit reverently, closing her eyes as she leaned into the warmth of his palm. “Adam…”_

_“Look at me, darling,” he urged, lifting his other hand to catch her, to hold her, to make her feel his words before his mouth spoke them, before her ears heard them. “I love you.”_

_Her smile was the sun and moon in the same star-filled sky. “Adam… love me…”_

_The straw was soft, the heavy canvas blanket dulling any sharp, poking edges; her arms were warm and welcoming. His forehead rested against hers as her hands pushed his jacket off his shoulders, pulled his shirt over his head. His tongue traced the hollow of her throat as his fingers tangled in the ribbons of her bodice; he couldn’t help but laugh at her muttered relief (“Thank Christ!”) as he stripped her dress away. They clawed together at the laces of his trousers; he exhaled a shaking sigh at the feeling of her touch brushing over the swelling muscle through the thin fabric. Another few wriggles and tugs and they were nothing but skin, warm and damp, clinging to one another as their lips met, parted, met once more._

_She gasped softly, her eyes blown wide as his fingers sought her, sliding curiously and cautiously through the wet curls below her navel. He watched with worshipful fascination her expression while it shifted and smoothed as he probed gently at the snug little spot meant to stretch to welcome him; he tasted her slack, open mouth as he pushed just a fingertip inside her. She cried out sharply, a sound devoid of pain, and he buried his face in the warmth of her neck. “Are you certain, my sweet?” he rasped into her ear, the iron rod of his cock throbbing against the inside of her thigh._

_“Adam,” she moaned, her lyrical plea edged with taut desire as she drew her leg up over his hip. “Love me…”_

_He filled his hands with her heavy tresses, pulled her head back with gentle care. His mouth danced over hers until the roll of his hips turned the two into one; he swallowed her “I love you” before stopping her words with a dip of his tongue and sealing their lips together. She was soft and tight and warm and wet, and every shift of his body and pull of his hands opened her more, and more, until she was clutching at him in desperate delight. She wound herself around him, lifted herself into him, moaning his name longer and louder as he took her, and learned her pleasure. The way her breath left her in a tiny sob when he drew his length back, the way it hiccupped in her chest when he slid deep once more. The sleepy blinks of her eyes when he suckled one small graceful finger tenderly into his mouth, the way they flew wide and dark when he did the same to the pert, pink buds at the tips of her breasts._

_His own ecstasy was coiling tight at the base of his spine, powder awaiting spark, when he noticed the little hitching nudge of her hips that met each of his thrusts, the way her small, even teeth would bite down on her lip when their bodies collided just so. Curious, he slid his hand down between them, grinning at her maiden blush as the terrain responded at once to the questing contact. Her curls parted beneath his fingers, and a precious little mewl burst from her lips as his knuckles bumped against the small and swollen pearl of flesh just at the top of her sex. He flickered over it again, and the mewl became a moan, the snug, slick muscles that held him fluttering deliciously around his girth. “Ohhh… Emma…”_

_“Yes, Adam,” she nodded, her grey-green eyes hazy with anticipation and need. “Yes… please…”_

_Moving on instinct, he caught the little nub in the vee of his fingers and began to stroke. It only took a moment, and a hoarse cry of shocked affirmation tore loose from her throat. He met it with a groan of his own as her body around him clenched impossibly tight, vibrating with a rhythm at once sacred and sinful. He let her hold him as long as he dared, rutting against him in unashamed bliss; she’d only just begun to relax when he pulled himself free to spurt thick ropes of pearl white over the tender flesh of her belly. He hovered above her a long moment, staring down, memorizing the contrast: the gloss of his seed against the matte of her goosebumps, the flushed rosy head of his waning erection resting against the pale landscape of her skin. And then he was swaying, collapsing into her arms as she welcomed him home._

_“Adam… I love you. More than the wide world, I love you…”_

_It was Minstrel’s quiet nickering that brought him back to his senses, and he sat up with a start, all but certain he’d suffocated the delicate girl beneath him. When he realized she was in fact not only breathing, but smiling in her sleep, he settled carefully against her once more. He traced the line of her brow with a fingertip, brushed his lips against hers, closed his eyes at her contented sigh that dusted over his cheek._

_“My beautiful Emma,” he murmured into her hair, “what have I done to you?”_

_Their clandestine coupling remained their sweet secret; nary had a head in the household turned their way the next day, nor a single set of eyes lingered too long in a scrutinizing stare. They moved around and about each other as they always had, no warmer, no cooler, and who else could know the new electric thrill they shared when their arms brushed passing in the halls, when their fingers touched as he handed her his plate and cup at every meal?_

_And how his heart had ached with pride for her as her composure held under the barrage of his mother’s excitement, her plans to prepare the property for the Worthington’s tour, the formal dinner she intended to serve, the songs she and Adam would play for presentation in the parlor. He was not at all certain she’d be waiting in their favorite spot, the tiny clearing in the grove of apple and almond trees. But she was, her simple frock no longer hidden by her apron, her hair hanging down her back in a dark, dense braid. She smiled when she saw him, but the light of the sickle moon betrayed the tears in her eyes, and he drew her close, kissing her softly as he lowered her tenderly to the cool, comforting moss._

_“I’ll work something out for you, Emma, for us. I swear to Christ, I will…”_

_The day of the dinner dawned hazy and humid, and it took every ounce of strength he possessed to push himself from his bed. His new tailored suit hung smart by the window; he scowled at it angrily before thrusting his arms through the sleeves of the same shirt he’d worn the previous day. He’d smudged ink at one elbow and dragged a cuff through the gravy; he’d also stolen a long moment with Emma before seeing himself to bed, and the scent of her skin still held to the linen. He’d not be expected presentable until at least the noon hour anyway; his mother would simply think him mindful of soiling his commissioned clothing before his betrothed had the chance to appreciate it._

_Hell, she might even drop him a word of praise._

_The house was immaculate, the few servants his parents employed expected to tend the kitchen for the day. It wasn’t long before he found himself brooding on the stairs, the only place he’d any hope of catching snippets of her humming or her laughter or the respectful banter she would share with her mother. That’s where his father found him, shooing him kindly but firmly to the stables to groom the horses and prepare the tack, so that Lord Phillip not be kept waiting when time came to inspect the orchards. He stared sullenly into mocha brown eyes as he stroked the brush through the ebony mane, managing a small grin when the velvety nose pushed into his chest with an interested sniff. “I know, Minstrel,” he sighed, “I miss her as well…”_

_The trees and their yield met with Lord Phillip’s approval, and both James and Eleanor were assured and excited as all took their seats to dine. Catherine had pouted quietly in Adam’s ear about propriety dictating the promised sit at the right hand of their fathers, putting a yard of table between them easily. He patted her hand with a thin, silent smile before untucking it from his elbow and guiding her into her chair. He kept his eyes on his mother as he sank into his own, vowing not to turn to the kitchen door lest his anticipation raise suspicion. He thanked God that Elizabeth glided in first to occupy the table with her pouring of the wine into the blue Venetian glasses the Worthington’s had brought as a gift; it allowed him to see Emma for the first time unobserved._

_A silent vision she was, her own new dress draped over her shapely form with exquisite maiden modesty. The deep purple fabric was vibrant against her porcelain skin and beneath her fresh starched apron, and she’d tied a ribbon of matching hue around her delicate throat. Her hair was tamed and twisted and pinned demurely atop her head, and his own mother had suggested she trim the bloom from the orchid stem to tuck among the shining coils. Her eyes were cast appropriately to her shoes until it was time to offer her bread basket to the assembled guests, but their seawater depths found him briefly as he plucked a roll from among the others; he was certain no one but he saw the tiny wink she dropped with her polite curtsey before moving on to serve his mother._

_She was back behind closed doors as the families dined, the men speaking business as the women compared stitchery, inventoried heirloom jewelry, and happily discussed all the frivolity of his impending nuptials. He smiled mechanically each time Catherine tipped her head or waved her fork his direction, repeating silently to himself that more than one serving of Riesling could prove a devastating mistake. “He’s such a mature young man for his age,” his mother cooed at the sight of his empty glass, “always mindful of his ways and words. Emma!”_

_Adam started a bit at the sound of her name, his expression carefully neutral when she appeared in the doorway. “Lady Eleanor?”_

_“Bring my son some of that sweet cider, there’s a good girl.” Eleanor turned to pat Adam’s hand with her own. “Can’t have you dry mouthed at the harpsichord, darling, not when our guests have been waiting so long to hear you play. Adam’s such a clever musician, always plunking away at tunes of his own…”_

_Her twittering praise faded to white noise as Emma returned to the dining room, crossing gracefully to his side with the sweating iron pitcher held firmly in her hands. Adam fixed his gaze on the textured bowl of the cunning glass goblet, knowing she would as well. He could feel the warmth from the ovens still wafting from her dress, could smell the faint but fragrant undertone of her hair beneath the savory scent of the vegetables and venison. His cup was nearly full when a few, fat drops of the pitcher’s perspiration dripped silently onto his wrist and the back of his hand, catching the dancing gold of the candlelight. He sat straight and still, staring at their shimmering surfaces for a long heartbeat. Then, before he could stop it, his eyes slid closed in tortured delight as her soft, nimble fingers smoothed the spill quickly and cleanly away._

_“So sorry, Sir,” her whisper nowhere near audible above the friendly din surrounding them._

_“Thank you, Emma.”_

_She returned to the kitchen, taking her energy with her, and with a shuddering sigh, Adam resumed his silent part in his parents palaver._

_It felt an eternity until the table was cleared and the crowd retired to the music room. He sat stiffly at Catherine’s side, ignoring the press of her knee against his own as his mother proudly tapped out pieces by Agricola and Schlick and Guglielmo, ending her set with her favorite,_ O Rosa Bella. _At last, Adam took the bench with little flourish, more than ready to lose himself in the sea of notes and rhythms that so often pulled him under. He began with the cunning little melody he always played when Emma was sweeping the floors, smiling to himself at the memory of her spinning herself about with her wooden partner on her arm. Catherine and her mother clapped their hands in delight when the music fell silent, and Eleanor and James beamed at one another from their bookend armchairs across the room. Next, he placated his mother with a few hymns from Sunday church, all thumped out with proper Gregorian vigor._

_He’d been planning on ending his turn at the ivory with a piece come from Italy, the printed lines shown to him by a traveling merchant glad-handing parishioners one morning after services the previous summer. Intricate and intriguing, he’d committed as much as he could to memory, and enjoyed improvising what he could not. But when he lifted his gaze to the star-dotted sky beyond the window in front of him, then dropped it to the soft, sweet buds that bowed their heads to the night, he shifted his hands, eased his foot from the pedals._

_The lines and phrases had been whispering their way through his mind from that first night in the stables when he’d held her, sated and sleeping, in the circle of his arms. It ebbed over his brain whenever she was close enough for him to feel her heat, swelled every night when he crawled into his bed without her. A low and lilting lullaby, his song for her, his love poured into sound._

_The men were all clearing their throats when he turned back to his small assembly at last, the women all dabbing the corners of their eyes with the lace edges of their cuffs. Even fair and fickle Catherine did not appear above the emotional tug: the tip of her normally upturned nose blushed a bright pink, her mouth quirked curiously at the corners, and her fingers absently worried the decorative fringe of the ribbon at her bodice. He rose from his place, offered the room a taut bow, then excused himself for a breath of the newborn night air._

_The servants were lined up proper at the door when he returned to the house, and he took his prescribed position by the bottom of the stairs, relieved to finally bid his betrothed and her family farewell. He shook Lord Phillip’s hand with aplomb, bowed once again to Lady Charlotte, and dusted a polite peck to the back of Catherine’s hand. He was all but one foot to the kitchen and out the back entrance when the pretty blonde made her curtsey to his parents, placing a hand over her throat as she spoke. “It was such a lovely evening and I do so appreciate your discretion, really. I hope she takes her flogging with grace.”_

_Adam’s heart stopped as his father’s brow crooked in confusion, as the color drained from his mother’s face. “I’m sorry, my dear?” James tugged nervously at his ear. “Flogging?”_

_“Oh yes,” one willowy arm flapped contemptuously in Emma’s direction. “Absolutely appalling, a servant who can’t keep her eyes, or her hands, off her master… her_ affianced _master at that…”_

_“Wh-what?” Adam gnashed his teeth as he watched Emma’s lovely face twist in incredulous fear. “I… I… but… but I…”_

_“I mean,” Catherine clicked her tongue condescendingly, “it’s not mandatory you flog her before sending her away, Sir James. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all if you didn’t; I’ve always sensed a very wide streak of kindness in you. Still, one has to wonder if being spared the rod would indeed spoil such a brazen, willful child… I just don’t know that I could bear such disrespect being shown to my family under my own roof.” She flipped a golden curl over her shoulder as she fixed Emma with an icy stare. “Orchid’s a good flower for you, miss, but you should know: it takes more than that to properly serve fine English souls in fine English manors. Hopefully you’ll learn before insulting the next family generous enough to take you in.”_

_Emma was ashen as she all but collapsed against her mother in Catherine’s wake; it was his own mother who blocked Adam from taking her his arms, her aging hands gripping him like iron. “Don’t you dare, you foolish boy, you stay right where you are! Do you want your father forced out of employ?”_

_His head was spinning as he listened to too much at once – Lady Charlotte bustling out to tend to her rattled daughter, Eleanor urging Elizabeth to take her girl to their quarters, Lord Phillip muttering gruffly as James fumbled with the bottom button of his waistcoat, “Physical consequences are at your discretion, of course, but for God’s sake, man, you_ must _keep your house in order…”_

_And then his mother’s fingers a vice at his chin. “You take yourself upstairs_ this instant _! Your father and I will figure out how to untangle this mess but only if you_ get yourself to your room _! I mean it, young man – GO!”_

_The last thing he saw before Elizabeth wrenched her daughter’s hand from the doorframe and shoved her unceremoniously out into the night were the first streaks of terrified tears wetting Emma’s cheeks, his name a soundless shape on her lips. He bolted up the stairs and into his room, rushing to his window to watch her stumble across the yard to the cottage, weeping brokenly into her mother’s shoulder. “Damn!” he shouted angrily, pounding his fist against the thick, hazy glass. “Damn, damn, DAMN!”_

_He paced the floor like a caged animal, chewing angrily at his thumbnail as he wracked his brain for words and plans, needing to act, not knowing how. Every few moments he’d return to the window, praying silently for some sign, but all there was to see was the same simple candle burning silently on her sill. Finally, unable to bear another moment, he flung open the door and raced down the stairs, bursting into the study with enough force to make his parents jump in their places, a small shriek spilling from his mother’s lips. “You listen to me… Father…. Mother… I care not a whit what James and Catherine Worthington say… no one… NO ONE will lay hands on my Emma, do you understand me?”_

_James looked long and hard at his son, his jaw sagging in shocked sadness as his wife dissolved into hiccupping sobs beside him. “Your Emma?” he spoke, incredulous. “Adam… what in God’s name do you mean, YOUR Emma?”_

_“I mean,” Adam took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and met his father’s eye. “I mean that she’s mine, Father. My friend, my lover, my beating heart! Emma is mine. She’s the woman I love, she’s the woman I want, she’s the only woman I’ll marry.” He swallowed miserably as the man before him seemed to deflate within his skin. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have spoken to you about this like a man months ago… I was wrong not to, and I’m so very sorry…”_

_“Months ago!” Eleanor cried, her hands fluttering to her chest. “Months ago! I knew, sweet Jesus forgive me, I knew it, I saw it, happened right in front of my eyes it did!”_

_“Yes, Mother, it did,” Adam barked softly. “You knew… you saw… and you did nothing to stop it.”_

_Her eyes went wild with a sudden irrational fury, and she shook a scolding finger in her son’s direction. “Don’t you lay this at MY feet, you wretched boy! Don’t DARE lay blame for this at my feet…”_

_“Mother,” Adam started towards her, his hands held out in plea as she backed away, shaking her head. “I’m not blaming you, not by even the slightest measure. But if you knew… if you saw and understood what was happening and you didn’t stop it… mustn’t there be a reason?” He let silence linger a moment before continuing. “Of course there is.” He locked his gaze with hers. “You love her, too.”_

_Eleanor blanched as James spun his head to look at her, trying to gauge the truth of the statement. “I have always been more than kind to all who serve in my home with a hardworking heart…”_

_“That is not what this is, Mother,” Adam pressed firmly, “and you bloody well know it. You adore Emma, I know you do! Father adores her, Declan adores her. I daresay the only soul who’s met her that doesn’t adore her is Catherine bloody Worthington! And Mother?” He swallowed hard. “I love her. She loves me and I love her and I want her for my wife.”_

_Eleanor turned her gaze wildly to her husband. “My cousin Margaret!”she chirped suddenly. “That fine old estate in Edinburgh! It’s just her and Charles and their lame little boy. It’s such a big place… they can always use hands… they’d take Emma and Elizabeth in a wink, I know they would…”_

_Adam clenched his teeth, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “You are not sending her to Scotland.”_

_“We could carriage them to London ourselves and from there, passage wouldn’t be too dear…”_

_“She is NOT leaving the country!”_

_“It won’t cost us a thing compared to all we stand to lose should we let the girl stay, James, you KNOW that…”_

_“MOTHER!”_

_His angry shout turned both his parents’ heads, and when he spoke again, it was with cold and careful calculation. “Emma and I will never be apart.” He raised his chin a proud and determined notch. “If you send her to Scotland, then I go to Scotland.”_

_A silent look passed from husband to wife; the weary woman sank into her chair with her head in her hands. James cleared his throat, pulled again at his earlobe. “Well…family…I daresay this problem won’t be solved with words, pretty or poisonous, and it certainly won’t be solved here in this room tonight. Adam,” he exhaled a gruff sigh, “you understand the position you and that little lass have put your mother and I in, do you not?”_

_Adam swallowed a throatful of bile. “I do, sir. And as I said, I should have been the man you raised me to be and come to you the moment I knew my heart. I’m ashamed that I didn’t, and I’ll forever be sorry. But Father?” His lip trembled briefly. “I do know my heart. And she is all of it…”_

_James scrutinized his son a long moment. “And you’re fair certain t’isn’t some passing fancy?”_

_“I’m more than certain.”_

_James sighed heavily, rubbed a thoughtful hand beneath his chin. “And you know what this could mean for our family? For Lord and Lady Worthington? For poor Catherine?”_

_Adam’s eyes narrowed in barely concealed contempt. “Poor Catherine should count herself lucky, and learn that there are worse things in this world than a broken betrothal.”_

_“Oh really, sweet sage?” Eleanor spat bitterly. “Like what?”_

_Adam regarded his mother piteously. “Like spending her life bound to a man who doesn’t love her.” He took a step closer to her, then another. “Like living each day sitting next to a man who can only think of and long for someone else.” He dropped to his knees, taking her hand in both of his own. “Like sharing her body with a man who’s best to offer is closing his eyes and imaging another woman beneath his touch.”_

_Eleanor’s expression twisted, hardened, then softened in a rush of tears. “Oh, Adam,” she pulled him to her breast, tugging wretchedly at his hair as he embraced her. “You foolish, foolish boy.”_

_She wept in his arms a long moment as James watched awkwardly from the corner of his desk, finally tapping his son on his shoulder and gesturing towards the door. “Your mother and I need to speak alone for a bit, Adam, and you need a fair night’s rest. Whatever comes tomorrow, we’ll need all our wits about us, all of us, to face it down.”_

_Adam nodded silently, stroking his mother’s cheek as he rose to his feet. “And you’ll not hurt my Emma? No flogging, no whipping?”_

_“Of course not,” James scowled as if the mere thought left a bitter film on his tongue._

_“You’ll not send her away?”_

_“She and her mother can sleep sound as church mice tonight, Adam, I give you my word.” James stared intensely at Eleanor as their son turned away, oblivious to their silent congress as he trudged wearily across the rug._

_“Again, sir,” Adam sighed over his shoulder. “My deepest apologies.” He closed his hand over the doorknob._

_“You know, Son…”_

_“James…?” Eleanor sat a bit straighter in her chair._

_“There is something I should tell you…”_

_“James… be sure…”_

_Adam furrowed his brow at his mother’s words, turning to face his father once more with more than a little confusion. “Sir?”_

_James offered him a small, sincere smile. “I’m proud of you.”_

_Adam’s befuddlement only increased. “You are?”_

_“Mmm-hmm,” James nodded, crossing the desk to lay a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I mean, after all, keeping your affections for young Emma a secret might not have been the most foolish thing you could have done.” He leveled his gaze on his son’s narrowed blue eyes. “After all, you could have bundled the girl off to Father Matthew and confessed your indiscretion to him. He’d have forced you two to marry right there in the sight of God, and then there’d be no man to put that asunder…”_

_Emma was weeping softly into her pillow when the pounding started, heavy fists hammering on the door of the cottage. She scuttled, terrified, to the corner of her mattress, her hands pressed to her mouth until his voice drifted through the wood. “Emma? Emma, sweet, let me in… hurry!”_

_“Adam!” she sobbed, clambering from the bed and racing to throw open the door. His hands were caressing her face, soothing away her tears before he was even one foot in the room, and she clutched at his wrists, babbling desperately. “Adam, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry, I beg you forgive me! T’was a foolish thing to do, such a terrible risk… and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”_

_He stopped her mouth with a kiss, kicking the door shut behind him. She was breathless when he released her, and he smoothed the stray strands of her hair away from her sweaty brow. “Shush now, my love, we’ve precious little time.” He glanced around her tiny quarters. “Where is your mother?”_

_“I… I… I put her to bed, she was so near hysterical. Certain, she was, that your father would roust us both out the yard and flog us back to town. I had to give her a cordial to calm her down…”_

_“Oh, good girl!” Adam pressed an approving kiss to her forehead before dashing into the other room. Confirming that Elizabeth was indeed comfortably asleep, he covered her with an extra blanket before hurrying back to throw open the doors to Emma’s tiny wardrobe. Her face crumbled in misery as he groped along the modest selection of dresses, tossing out one, then another._

_“He does want us gone, doesn’t he, your father? I’ve ruined his plans, I’ve ruined your future… oh, God, Adam, forgive me, please!”_

_He spun on his heels to face her, a grin on his lips, the finest frock she owned held in his hands. “Put this on,” he kissed her forehead once more, “and I’ll be back in a moment.”_

_Perplexed, Emma sniffled sadly as she gently fingered the crisp white linen, the shining lavender ribbon. “Adam… this is my church wear…”_

_“I know,” his smile was pure mischief, and he put a finger to her mouth before she could speak another word. “Do you trust me, my sweet?”_

_“Yes.” Her answer was immediate, certain._

_“And do you love me?”_

_“Oh, Adam,” she whispered reverently, “more than the wide world, I love you.”_

_“Good,” he soothed a hand over her cheek. “Put that on, and wait for me here…”_

_The horse whinnied calmly in greeting, as if he’d been expecting another midnight adventure. Adam bridled him with ease, foregoing the saddle and swinging his long, lanky form to the animal’s bare back. A brisk trot across the yard, and one heavy black hoof toed the earth restlessly outside the servants’ suite as the door swung open. “Well, hello there, Minstrel,” Emma smiled, pressing a kiss to his soft, warm nose before Adam lifted her up in front of him. “Adam?” Her eyes were still wet but clearing, full of timid curiosity. “Where are we going?”_

_Adam nuzzled her temple, put his mouth close to her ear. “Do you trust me, sweet?”_

_She nodded at once. “I do.”_

_“Then trust me.”_

_A click of his tongue, a nudge of his boot and again they were off through the dark._

_The parish priest was used to late night knocks at his door. Travelers caught in the seasonal storms and seeking refuge, members of his flock plagued by storms of the soul and seeking peace of mind, the desolate hungry hoping for some stew or salted meat, perhaps a nip of wine to keep them warm. But it had been quite some time since he’d seen a couple like the one standing before him now, the young lady hiding shyly behind her fellow’s shoulder, the young man stuttering apologies for hammering on the wood until the shingles rattled against the roof. “It’s all right, my son. Sometimes the Father’s call is the coo of a dove, sometimes it’s the rumble of thunder.” He squinted in the dim candlelight, rubbed briefly at his eyes. “You’re Sir James’ boy, m’I right? Sir Adam, it is?” He offered his hand in respect. “What exactly might I do for you tonight?”_

_“Father Matthew,” Adam blurted, “I’ve taken this young woman’s virtue and must marry her at once!”_

_Emma’s mouth fell open in a round “o” of shock, and she slapped angrily at his shoulder as a furious blush bloomed in her cheeks. “Don’t say it like that!”_

_He showered her with apologies as the chuckling clergyman invited them in, excusing himself briefly to venture to the other side of the chapel to rouse the gardener to stand as witness. He donned his robe and sash upon his return, draped his modest home altar with a delicate swath of pale Irish lace before inviting the lovers to light the tapers. The words were solemn and brief, the golden candlelight reflected in irises of ocean blue and mossy green, the kiss that soldered their lives together was slow and sublime. A few quilled sentences on fine parchment, two signatures and a seal, and Adam lifted his bride to her place on the palfrey, turning him back towards home._

_He kept the animal at a steady amble, holding the back of her head as it turned on her neck for kiss after soft, secret kiss. When the house came into view and no coachman was waiting with carriage tethered, no crates and cases stacked at the doors, he breathed a quiet sigh, and headed for the stables. Emma helped him blanket the steed, rubbing her palm over one powerful shoulder. “We can’t keep him, can we?”_

_Adam ruffled his own fingers through Minstrel’s mane as his musical whinny danced on the air. “I don’t know, love,” he replied, meeting her sad eyes evenly, “certainly not without Lord Phillip taking his worth from the land’s yield…”_

_She blinked back tears as the animal snuffled quietly into her palm rubbing at his velvety nose. “I’ve made a mess of your life, Adam. I’m so very sorry…”_

_His arm was around her waist in a flash, crushing her words with a searing kiss. “You are my life, Emma,” he whispered fiercely when they parted. “You set my heart to beating the day you stepped through the door.” He caught her hand and pressed it firmly to his chest. “Never will it beat for another.”_

_Her cheeks blushed a comely pink when their trek outside led her away from the cottage, deepened to a warm crimson when he ushered her past the servant’s entrance to the house. He stood straight and proper as he opened the front door, gesturing her inside with a courtly bow. They crept up the stairs side by side, and as they tiptoed past his parent’s chamber, a low snore drifted through the closed door. “Well,” Emma offered him a tiny grin, “at least your father is sleeping sound.”_

_Adam’s answering smile was much larger. “That, sweet, was my mother.”_

_Emma blanched, then buried her giggles in the cup of one hand._

_He never let go of the other as he guided her to the end of the hall, pausing a moment to look down on her. Petite and perfect, shaking like a leaf, her rosebud lips trembling as he lifted her into his arms and carried her inside, carefully nudging the door closed with his heel._

_He was sweaty, sated, and sleeping, curled protectively around her in his bed when Eleanor’s gentle nudge to his shoulder roused him to reality. “Adam…”_

_He’d never seen her lost for words; he squeezed her hand, kissing it gratefully. “I know, Mother,” he nodded. “I know. Thank you.”_

_Her brow stitched in sorrowful confusion. “For what?”_

_He paused but a moment, and there, in that early morning quiet, she watched the boy she’d birthed and raised become a man right in front of her eyes. “For sparing us a wedding night spent in a carriage of exile, rattling through the dark.”_

_“Oh… Adam…” She smoothed a hand over his curls, leaned in to kiss his forehead, mindful not to rouse the young woman still dreaming in his arms. She even managed a smile through her tears. “Your bride is beautiful.”_

_Emma’s tears flowed just as easily as she hugged and kissed her mother while waiting at Adam’s side on the lawn outside the door, Elizabeth’s fingers playing nervously through the dark, waving hair that tumbled down her daughter’s back. “Get yourself a proper kerchief, quick as you can, foolish girl…”_

_“Beautiful things are meant to be seen,” Adam’s voice was gentle but firm, and he smiled humbly at his mother-in-law’s quick and conditioned nod of deference before dusting a peck to her cheek. “Your daughter is my treasure, Miss Elizabeth. Please don’t worry, I’ll forever care for her as such.” The small, sturdy woman nodded again before pushing aside the errant curling strands that the late morning breeze had blown across his forehead, then dropped a proper curtsey before scuttling back to the kitchen, wringing her apron absently in her hands._

_He’d thought his own emotions would be the easiest to bear. But when the carriage rounded the property with Minstrel securely tethered to the tailboard, the lump in his throat proved more than a little difficult to swallow._

_The estate in Edinburgh was grand and grey. Margaret and Charles were waiting at the manor path, their little Edward shuffling excitedly towards the newcomers in his halting, crooked gait. The guest home was sparse, barely worth the title and full of mismatched borrowed furniture. But it was three rooms of their own, and the newlyweds made certain to grace each supporting surface with their amorous presence. Emma soon took her place as if she’d always been there, filling the worn and weary main house with laughter and light, never failing to impress with her sweet, sunny nature and passion for hauling up her skirt and dropping to her knees when a scrub or a spill or an ill patch of Earth cried out for attention._

_The forge on the property was serviceable but small, easy to run; Charles had never taken on an apprentice because there had never been a need. But the knowledge-hungry pupil in Adam brought out the efficient and admirable teacher in the older man, and it wasn’t long before the surrounding neighbors were recognizing a new, more subtly skilled touch to the horseshoes and bridle bits and hinges and chains they carried away home. And every night, after bidding their hosts and the grand house goodnight, husband and wife would sink into the hot, wet refuge of the claw foot monstrosity in the rear corner of their residence together, Emma scrubbing the char and pitch from Adam’s hands before they slipped under the water to play her body like his own custom-crafted instrument, drawing the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard from her plump, pleading lips._

_Almost two years of simple serenity, then came night after night of cuddling conversation as they lay, naked and entwined, watching her belly swell and grow. He lay with his cheek to her warm, soft skin, feeling the kicks that drummed beneath, gazing up at her with a wanting kind of wonder as she combed her fingers through his curls. “Samuel? Simon? Nathaniel?” she giggled as he traced his fingertip along one shifting bulge below her ribs. “William? Abel? Andrew?”_

_“We need a girl’s name, my darling,” he pressed a kiss to the pink nub of her newly protruding navel._

_“No, we don’t,” she grinned, matter-of-fact. “This little lump is a bouncing baby boy. He’s got blue in his eyes and copper fire in his hair, just like his dada. He’s got a straight, fine nose and long, strong hands. He’s going to smile every morning and he’ll never, never cry.” They laughed together at her unrealistic optimism, and she continued, undaunted. “He can walk square and tall and he’ll run like the wind. He can play the harpsichord and sing songs and paint pictures and turn metal into magic.”_

_“Oh, he can, can he?” Adam chuckled, shifting their bodies with reverent care, moving onto his back and guiding her legs over his hips._

_“He positively can,” Emma nodded pertly, flattening her palms against the muscles of his abdomen as she shifted and settled. “He can grow the finest harvest wheat and the fattest autumn apples and build a carriage from even willow snap fit to carry a king.”_

_“You sound very sure, my love,” Adam smiled, smoothing his palms over the supple flesh of her thighs._

_“Oh, I am,” she beamed with pride. “My boy can do anything and everything. All the chaps will call him ‘mate’ and the girls will swoon at his smile.” She stroked the bowl of her belly with so much affection it made Adam’s heart ache. “Because my boy was made by my husband,” she murmured softly. “And my husband makes naught but light and love.” She leaned over to press a soft kiss to his lips, her hair falling around them in a dark, fragrant curtain. “What do you have to say to that, Sir?”_

_“I say, sweet Lady,” he gave one long, thick lock an affectionate tug, “that we need a name for a girl.”_

_Emma growled at him playfully, nipping at his lips and nose before he nudged her to sit straight above him once more. A subtle shift in the air; the sleepy-sweet lilt at the corners of her eyes told him she felt it, too. His large hands slid tenderly up past their growing child to cup and caress her swollen, sensitive breasts. “Take me inside you, love, I’ve missed you all day…”_

_The midwife assured them the twinges and tightness that had begun to plague her days were hallmark for first babies; Margaret re-divided the duties amongst her girls with their blessings, seating Emma at the hearth to tend the sewing and the darning with a pillow at her back while Edward and his spaniel puppy played rough and tumble at her feet._

_He was sweating at the forge when young Beatrice appeared at his elbow, her apron a worried twist in her fidgeting hands, her face flushed and her breath ragged in the wake of her race from the house. “Sir? Sir? It’s coming, Sir, it’s coming! Lady Emma begs your presence, Sir…”_

_Long hours he held her, the hot, heaving bellows of her back pressed against his chest, his mouth close to her ear, the tang of her sweat on his lips. Her fingers braided through his as she panted and puffed, her sunny disposition strained but intact, broken only occasionally by brief strings of swearing that left him stunned, and a little impressed. She collapsed into his arms after each, ashamed and apologizing as he chuckled forgiving reassurance into her neck. Margaret and the midwife, a stocky Scot named Sarah, attended the activity between her spread legs, murmuring encouragement and comfort, meeting Adam’s silent but inquiring gaze with nods and excited smiles._

_The sun had long retired and the moon was high in the sky when she shifted sharply in his arms, her head whipping ‘round on her neck so her wide, worried eyes could find his. “Adam… oh, God, Adam…”_

_Sarah’s palms pressed low on Emma’s belly before one hand disappeared beneath the curtain of her skirt. “Feels different, does it, lassie?” Her face split in a grin at the young woman’s desperate nod. “What say ye push the little kipper out, then?”_

_She’d soaked through her frock and Adam’s thick shirt, and her head was lolling on her neck in a brief moment of respite when the mood in the room took a dark, somber shift. When the midwife’s face paled. When the sheet between Emma’s legs began to darken. “Come on, missy,” a new urgency in a previously boisterous banter of instruction. “With all yer light and all yer might, push. Push, me love, push for yer life.”_

_Heartbeats, moments, hours. Time ceased to exist. There was only the dark of his beauty’s hair, the crimson of her flushed and straining skin. And then, the pale, lifeless, silent face they’d been waiting for months to see._

_Margaret and the midwife meant well, he knew that. Even with Emma’s hysterical pleas ringing in his ears, he knew, could see it in their pinched and sorrowful expressions. “Adam,” Margaret’s hand squeezed gently at his shoulder. “She’ll carry the sight the rest of her life.”_

_His eyes were fixed on the pool of angry scarlet slowly spreading across the mattress. “Yes. She will.” He turned his dull, dark stare to his cousin. “Give my wife her baby.”_

_Moments later, they were alone. A tiny family of three, huddled shivering in a borrowed bed. “You were right,” Emma sobbed through a veil of tears, stroking her finger across one plump, pale cheek. “I should have listened to you…”_

_“Stop that now, my love…”_

_“I should have listened to you! Every time, you said… you said…”_

_“Emma…”_

_“She needs a name, Adam! She’s our baby, our daughter, our own little girl! She needs a name!”_

_“Emma!” He shook her gently, forcing her gaze from the tiny closed eyes to his own, open and wet. “She has a name.” He smiled at her, pulled both of his girls closer to his chest. “She is our girl… and her name is Grace… she’s our beautiful, perfect, amazing Grace.”_

_Emma lifted the tiny body, cuddled the still wet and sticky curls beneath her chin. “I was right about one thing, Grace,” she murmured softly. “Your father makes naught but light and love.” She kissed the little forehead, the tip of the tiny nose, the slack little lips. And when the fingers of fatigue began to tug at her lids, she turned her gaze to his once more. “Adam, my love, please forgive me…”_

_“Emma,” he smiled down at her before covering her mouth with his own. “My sweet, beautiful Emma, there is nothing to forgive.”_

_“Adam,” a soft, reverent whisper. “More than the wide world… I love you.”_

_“Oh, sweet,” he lifted her chin, a kiss for the ages. “I will always love you.” He stroked his hand over her cheek, gave her hair one last, gentle tug._

_“Go take care of our daughter.”_


	21. Dénouement

She was weeping into her pillow when her eyes opened in the dark. She could taste the bitterness and the blood, the salt of sweat and tears. Her stomach spasmed in sharp, sympathetic cramps, and her hands clutched at her own shoulders in an empty embrace. “I’m sorry, Adam,” she sobbed softly. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

Arms encircled her from behind, rolling her over and crushing her against the cold and lonely planes of his body. “Emmaline,” his voice was bruised and broken, his own tears falling on her flushed cheeks like a cool, comforting rain. “Jesus fucking Christ, Emmaline, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He lifted a hand to her neck, tilting her face up to his, and she gasped softly at the sight.

His skin was thin and pale as parchment, shadows of misery circling his lips and dusting the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes were so dark with despairing need that they simply sunk into his skull, flat, black buttons with no distinction between pupil and iris. The ginger fire was gone from his hair; it hung in stringy, straight wisps of no color at all. “How?” he whispered miserably. “How in the fuck could I have forgotten you?”

Silence hung in the air between them for a long, empty moment. Then, ever so slowly, the same vision filled their heads: a well-cleaned and cared for .38 special… the cylinder empty save for one chamber… _dalbergia melanoxlon_.

Slowly, Emma lifted her hand to caress his cheek, her lips curling in a soft sweet smile. “You didn’t forget me. You were waiting for me to find you again.”

His jaw hung slack with shock as she guided his mouth to hers; it was only when the sincere, warm caress of her kiss found him that he could move once more. Plunging his hands into her hair, he devoured her, deep, and deeper still, silently begging her to draw from him all the centuries of separation with each silent flicker of her tender little tongue.

“I love you, Adam,” she whispered when they parted at last. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, Emmaline,” he rasped. “I love you… I love you…” They fell into one another once more, until rage and pain and desperation drove him to tear himself from her, snarling viciously into the skin of her neck. “ _I fucking hate that I love you.”_

“I know,” she nodded sleepily, her smile never faltering, not even when the needle-fine points of his fangs drove straight and true, tapping the rich, rushing river of her carotid. Her hands traveled over him calmly, leisurely. No windows into the past, no richly textured sensual flow into memory. There was only that long, quiet moment at the end of her life, as he drew her vitality into himself, swallow after swallow. She could feel her heat warming and pinking his skin even as hers cooled and paled, his vigor surging even as hers waned. She could hear it in the soft and satisfied grunts of his breath. And when he lifted his head to look down on her, she could see it in the blazing blue of his eyes, the ruddy flush to his cheeks, the calm, certain curve of his lips.

“I can walk this world without you, Emmaline,” his voice was steady and somber in her ears. “I’ve done it before… I can do it again.”

She nodded once more, passing her tongue weakly over her parched lips, fighting with every slowing beat of her heart to keep her eyes open, to memorize every last detail. From the impossibly irresistible crook of his right eyebrow, to the fine lines of tension ticking in his jaw, to the elegant strength of his fingers that brushed her hair back from her forehead. “I know.” Her struggle continued as he lowered his head, their gazes locked as he offered her one final taste of herself from his tongue before speaking firmly, quietly, into her mouth.

“I don’t want to…”

She drew in one long, last breath, held it, set it free. And then, diving untethered into the ocean-deep pools of cerulean blue, she let her jaw hang slack, shivering ever so slightly at his silvery hiss of pain. “I love you, Adam…”

His only reply was a press of fleetingly warm flesh to her mouth.

Her smiling lips sealed over the slash in his wrist, and closing her eyes, she drank her way down into the darkness.


End file.
